HEMAN'S 
POEMS 


FELICift  HE MISS 


NEW  CENTURY 
EDITION 


THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


HEMAN'S    POEMS 


CHICAGO  AND   NEW  YORK 
THE  HENNEBERRY  COMPANY 


College 
Library 


A1/ 


CONTENTS. 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 
SELECTED  AS  SPECIMENS  OF  MRS.  HEMANS1  EARLY  TALENT. 


On  my  Mother's  Birthday  ....  i 

Pity  ;  an  Allegory,  versified     ...  i 

A  Prayer .  3 

Morning .  2 

On  a  Rose :    .    .  2 

Written  in  North  Wales      ....  2 

To  Hope      .........  2 

To  Fancy 3 

The  Lily  of  the  Vale 3 

Youth .    .    . ,  3 

Written  on  the  Sea-shore    .    •     .    .  3 

Hymn 3 

Liberty     .    '. .     .  4 

My  Brother  and  Sister,  in  the  Country  4 

Ode  to  Mirth 4 

The  Ruined  Cas'le     ......  5 

The  April  Mora    ..../..  5 

Shakspeare  .........  5 

Melancholy  .........  6 

Fairy  Song   •     .     >    .    i    „    .    .    .  6 

To  a  Butterfly  ......    c    .  6 

Hymn      .     ..     ...'..,.  6 

The  Minstrel  to  his  Harp    ....  6 

Song    •     . 6 

Holiday  Hours      .......  7 

Song  of  Zephyrus  ..",.:..  7 

The  Bee       7 


The  Song  of  a  Seraph 7 

Inscription  for  a  Hermitage    ...  7 

The  Petition  of  the  Redbreast      .    .  •; 

The  Minstrel  Bard 8 

Genius 8 

Song 9 

Rural  Walks     ........  10 

Christmas 10 

Sea  Piece  by  Moonlight      .    .    .     .  10 

Harvest  Hymn      .......  n 

Song  of  a  Wood  Nymph     .    .    .     .  u 

The  Farewell n 

The  Alpine  Shepherd 12 

Address  to  Music  .......  12 

Sonnet  to  Italy 12 

Address  to  Fancy 12 

Song 13 

Address  to  Thought  .    .    .    .  '  .    .  13 

To  my  Younger  Brother      ._...*.  14 

To  my  Mother 14 

War  Song  of  the  Spanish  Patriots    .  15 

Sea  Piece 15 

To  Resignation      .......  16 

Lines  written  in  the  Memoirs  of  Eliza- 
beth Smith     ........  16 

The  Silver  Locks  .......  17 

The  Bards    .........  V) 


.  1567917 


CONTENTS. 


The  Angel  of  the  Sun r8 

To  Mr.  Edwards,  the  Harper  of  Con- 
way .     19 


The  Ruin  and  its  Flowers 
Christmas  Carol    .    •    < 


PAGfc 

.    19 

•     30 


SONNETS. 


To  a  Dying  Exotic 


21  I   Sonnet     ..,,.,,»..    a; 


To  the  Muse  of  Pity 21      To  Agnes    .     ,.»,«,,»    tt 

Sonnet ^    ...    21       Sonnet     ...........    2a 

To  my  Mother      .......    21      Sonnet     ..........    22 

ENGLAND  AND  SPAIN;  OR,  VALOUR  AND  PATRIOTISM     .»..»...  22 

THE  DOMESTIC  AFFECTIONS ,,.....  30 

WAR  AND  PEACE ....,.,.  35 

THE  RESTORATION  OF  THE  WORKS  OF  ART  TO  ITALY   .....,,.,  43 

MODERN  GREECE 50 

TALES  AND  HISTORIC  SCENES. 

The  Abencerrage 65       Night-scene  in  Genoa 97 

The  Widow  of  Crescentius  ....  85  The  Troubadour  and  Richard  Coeur 

The  Last  Banquet  of  Antony  and  de  Lion 100 

Cleopatra 911       The  Death  of  Conradin 102 

Alaric  in  Italy  .    .     .' 93  Wallace's  Invocation  to  Bruce     .    .  104 

The  Wife  of  Asdrubal 95       The  Sceptic  ...     : 107 

Heliodorus  in  the  Temple  .    ...  96  Dartmoor     ..>,.«.;.  115 

WELSH  MELODIES. 

The  Harp  of  Wales 119  Taliesin's  Prophecy    ...»,.  125 

Druid  Chorus  on  the  Landing  of  the  Owen  Glyndwr's  War-song      .    v    .  1 25 

Romans 120  Prince  Madoc's  Farewell     .    .    .     .  126 

The  Green  Isles  of  Ocean    ....  120      Caswallon's  Triumph 126 

The  Sea-Song  of  Gafran      .     .     .     .121       Howel's  Song .  127 

The  Hirlas  Horn .121       The  Mountain  Fires 127 

The  Hall  of  Cynddylan 122       Eryri  Wen 127 

The  Lament  of  Llywarch  Hen     .     .  122  Chant  of  the  Bards  before  their  Mas- 

Grufydd's  Feast 123  sacre  by  Edward  I.      <    .    .    .    .  128 

The  Cambrian  in  America  ....  124  The  Dying  Bard's  Prophecy     .    .     .  128 

The  Fair  Isle    ........  124  The  Rock  of  Cader  Idris     ....  129 

THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA ...  no 


CONTENTS. 


SONGS  OF  THE  CID. 


PAGE 

The  Cid's  Departure  into  Exile    .    .183 
The  Cid's  Deathbed       184 


The  Cid's  Funeral  Procession 
The  Cid's  Rising       .    .    . 


FACE 
.    184 

.    1 36 


GREEK  SONGS. 


The  Storm  of  Delphi.    ,.,..186      The  Spartan's  March 188 

The  Bowl  of  Liberty i  187      The  Urn  and  Sword  ......  189 

The  Voice  of  Scio    .    «    «    •    •      .188      The  Myrtle- Bough     ......  189 

THE  MAREMMA 189 

A  TALE  OF  THE  SECRET  TRIBUNAL ,    .    * 193 

THE  CARAVAN  m  THE  DESERT ,    .    >, 208 

MARIUS  AMONGST  THE  RUINS  OF  CARTHAGE    ............   2IO 

A  TALE  OF  THE  FOURTEENTH  CENTURY 211 

BELSHAZZAR'S  FEAST 217 

THB  LAST  CONSTANTINB  .    .    .  *. 220 

THE  LEAGUE  OF  THE  ALPS  ;  OR.  THE  MEETING  ON  THE  FIELD  OF  GRUTLI  .    .  234 

THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO 240 

THB  FOREST  SANCTUARY . ,    ...  279 

LAYS  OF  MANY  LANDS* 

Moorish  Bridal  Song      .....  304  He  never  Smiled  Again  .    .    .    .    .313 

The  Bird's  Release     ..*•.««  305  The  Vassal's  Lament  for  the  Fallen 

The  Sword  of  the  Tomb  .....  306  Tree     ..........  314 

Valkyriur  Song     .....«»  307      The  Wild  Huntsman 315 

The  Cavern  of  the  Three  Tells     .     .  308  Brandenburgh  Harvest-Song  .    ,    .  316 

Swiss  Song  ...     ......  309      The  Shade  of  Theseus 316 

The  Messenger  Bird 310  Greek  Funeral  Chant,  or  Myriologue  317 

The  Stranger  in  Louisiana  ....  310  Ancient  Greek  Song  of  Exile    .    .    .  318 

The  Isle  of  Founts     ......  311      The  Parting  Song 319 

The  Bended  Bow  , 312  The  Suliote  Mother  ......  321 

Coeur  de  Lion  at  -the  Bier  of  his  The  Farewell  to  the  Dead  ....  332 

Father 313  > 


CONTENTS. 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 


PACK 

Aiabella  Stuart     .....    t    .  323 
The  Bride  of  the  Greek  Isle     .    .    .  329 

The  Switzer's  Wife 333 

Properzia  Rossi 336 

Gertrude ;  or,  Fidelity  till  Death  .     .  339 

Imelda 340 

Edith 342 

The  Indian  City 347 

The  Peasant  Girl  of  the  Rhone    .     .  351 
Indian  Woman's  Death-Song  .     .     .  353 


Joan  of  Arc  in  Rheims    .....  354 

Pauline 356 

Juana 358 

The  American  Forest  Girl  .     .    ;     .  359 

Costanza \     .  361 

Madeline 363 

The  Queen  of  Prussia's  Tomb .    .    .  365 

The  Memorial  Pillar 366 

The  Grave  of  a  Poetess  .    .    •    •    .  367 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


A  Spirit's  Return 368 

The  Lady  of  Provence 373 

The  Coronation  of  Inez  di  Castro    .  377 
Italian  Girl's  Hymn  to  the  Virgin         378 

To  a  Departed  Spirit 379 

The  Chamois  Hunter's  Love    .     .    -.  379 
The  Indian  with  his  Dead  Child  .     .  380 

Song  of  Emigration 381 

The  King  of  Arragon's  Lament  for 

his  Brother 382 

The  Return .  383 

The  Vaudois  Wife 384 

The  Guerilla  Leader's  Vow     '.     ,     .  385 
|Thekla  at  her  Lover's  Grave    .     .     .  385 

The  Sisters  of  Scio 386 

B-jrnardo  del  Carpio 387 


The  Tomb  of  Madame  Langhans     .  388 

The  Exile's  Dirge 389 

The  Dream-ing  Chi'd ......  390 

The  Charmed  Picture     ....     .391 

Parting  Words 392 

The  Message  to  the  Dead   ....  393 

The  Soldier's  Deathbed 393 

The  Image  in  the  Heart      .    .    .  •  .  394 

The  Land  of  Dreams 395 

The  Two  Homes 397 

Woman  on  .the  Field  of  Battle     .    .  397 

The  Deserted  House 398 

The  Stranger's  Heart 399 

Come  Home  I  ...         ....  399 

The  Fountain  of  Obliviua   .     ,    «    ,  400 


PREFATORY   MEMOIR. 


|ELICIA  DOROTHEA  BROWNE  (afterwards  Hemans),  born  at 
Liverpool,  September  2  5th,  1793,  was  the  daughter  of  a  merchant. 
Her  mother  was  of  Italian  descent ;  a  woman  of  great  intelligence 
and  excellence.  Felicia  was  her  fifth  child,  and  was  remarkable  in  early 
childhood  for  precocious  talent  and  great  personal  beauty. 

Commercial  losses  obliged  the  family  to  remove  from  Liverpool  in 
1800 — when  Felicia  was  seven  years  of  age — and  to  seek  a  new  home  in 
Wales,  near  Abergele,  Denbighshire. 

This  new  abode  was  one  of  great  beauty,  being  near  the  sea  and  sur- 
rounded by  the  high  Welsh  hills. 

Here  the  precocious  child  must  have  drunk  in  full  draughts  of  beauty 
from  the  scenery  around  her,  to  be  reproduced  in  after  years  in  her  poems, 
which  manifest  an  intense  appreciation  and  perfect  knowledge  of  the 
beauties  of  natural  scenery. 

Felicia's  earliest  verses  date  from  her  eighth  year,  and  were  written  in 
celebration  of  her  mother's  birthday.  At  the  age  of  fifteen  she  made  her 
first  appearance  in  print,  publishing  a  quarto  volume  of  poems. 

A  severe  review  of  these  juvenile  effusions  so  affected  the  girl-writer, 
that  she  was  ill  in  consequence  and  confined  to  her  bed  for  some  days. 
But  the  love  of  poetry  was  not  to  be  extinguished  by  the  breath  of  a 
hostile  critic.  Felicia,  the  same  year,  wrote  her  "  England  and  Spain," 
the  subject  being  inspired  by  the  intense  interest  felt  by  the  nation  at  the 
time  in  the  Peninsular  War  ;  and  her  own  individual  feeling  on  the  sub- 
ject from  having  two  brothers,  officers  in  the  Welsh  Fusiliers,  engaged  in 
it  Family  affection  was  at  all  times  strong  in  Felicia  Hemans. 

In  1809  the  young  poetess  became  acquainted  with  her  future  husband, 
Captain  Hemans,  of  the  4th  Regiment  A  mutual  affection  followed,  and 
they  became  engaged,  but  as  he  was  obliged  to  rejoin  his  regiment  In 
Spain  soon  afterwards,  the  marriage  was. deferred  till  1812,  when  she 
became  his  wife. 

During  the  interval  of  the  engagement  the  Browne  family  had  removed 
to  Bronwylfa,  where  Felicia  studied  languages  and  wrote  the  "Domestic 
Affections  "  and  several  minor  poems,  which  were  published  in  her  maid  ?n 
name  previous  to  her  marriage. 

Captain  and  Mrs.  Hemans  went  to  live  at  Daventry  hi  Northampton- 
shire, where  in  the  following  year  their  eldest  son  Arthur  was  born.  Soon 
after  they  returned  to  Bronwylfa,  and  took  up  their  abode  under  the  roof 


PREFATORY  MEMOIR. 

of  her  mother ;  her  father  having  gone  to  Quebec  on  commercial 
business. 

In  1816  the  young  wife  published  the  "Restoration  of  the  Works  of 
Art  to  Italy  "  and  "  Modern  Greece,"  the  latter  marking  a  distinct  step 
forward  in  her  poetical  career,  though  Byron  at  once  detected  in  it  aa 
ignorance  of  the  actual  state  of  that  country. 

In  1818  the  death  of  the  Princess  Charlotte  led  to  the  composition  ot 
the  really  fine  ode  on  her  death  which  was  published  in  Blackwood's 
April  number  of  that  year. 

In  the  following  year  the  young  poetess  gained  a  prize  for  the  best  poem 
on  the  meeting  of  Wallace  and  Bruce. 

This  literary  success  was  followed,  it  is  to  be  feared,  by  domestic  in- 
quietude ;  for  it  was  in  1818  that  her  husband  left  her,  on  the  plea  of  his 
health  requiring  his  residence  in  the  south  of  Europe.  She  was  at  this 
time  the  mother  of  five  sons,  and  already  acknowledged  as  a  promising 
member  of  the  guild  of  literature.  Her  husband  never  returned  to  her  ; 
but  whatever  was  the  cause  of  the  separation,  her  delicacy  and  womanly 
feeling  prevented  any  scandal  arising  from  it,  such  as  blackened  the  name 
of  Byron.  Mrs.  Hemans  was  a  woman  of  true  but  not  demonstrative 
Christianity.  The  self-righteousness  of  the  Pharisee  would  have  been 
abhorrent  to  her  ;  she,  who  could  from  her  popularity  and  promise  as  a 
writer  have  won  the  sympathy  of  all  England  for  her  wrongs,  was  silent, 
and  let  a  veil  of  love  fall  over  the  weaknesses,  wrongdoing,  or  incompati- 
bility of  temper  and  tastes  which  widowed  her  home.  Contrasted  with 
Lady  Byron,  Felicia  Hemans  shines  as  a  perfect  woman — loving,  for- 
giving, tender,  and  true. 

In  1820  Mrs.  Hemans  made  her  first  literary  friend,  Reginald  Heber, 
afterwards  Bishop  of  Calcutta.  She  also  became  a  contributor  to  the 
Edinburgh  Review,  sending  to  it  the  only  prose  writings  she  ever  pub- 
lished, the  papers  on  Foreign  Literature.  In  this  year  also  she  published 
the  "  Sceptic,"  and  her  "  Stanzas  to  the  Memory  of  George  the  Third." 

The  year  1821  was  distinguished  by  her  obtaining  the  prize  of  the 
Royal  Society  of  Literature  for-"  Dartmoor,"  a  poem  written  of  course  OP 
a  given  subject,  and  about  equal  to  the  general  class  of  prize  poems. 

The  "Welsh  Melodies"  appeared  next.  In  1823  the  "Vespers  ot 
Palermo"  was  performed,  unsuccessfully,  at  Covent  Garden.  In  this  same 
year  it  was  performed,  and  with  decided  success  (though  only  for  a  few 
successive  nights),  at  the  Theatre  Royal,  Edinburgh,  a  prologue  being 
written  for  this  tragedy  by  Sir  Walter  Scott  Another  tragedy,  called 
"  The  Crusaders,"  was  composed  not  long  after  the  "Vespers  of  Palermo," 
but  not  published  till  after  her  decease,  the  MS.  having  been  unaccount- 
ably lost. 

In  1826  the  "Forest  Sanctuary,"  her  favourite  poem,  appeared. 
There  are  passages  of  great  beauty  in  it  The  auto  da  //  is  very  striking 
and  touching,  and  occasional  lines  from  it  haunt  us  like  a  strain  of  music. 

In  1827  a  great  grief  fell  on  Mrs.  Hemans.  The  mother,  so  long  her 
support  and  shelter,  died  at  Rhyllon,  to  which  place  the  family  had  removed 
from  Bronwylfa  in  1824.  Soon  after  her  own  health  became  delicate. 


PREFATORY  MEMOIR. 

The  intervening  years  had  been  spent  in  educating  her  boys  and 
writing  some  of  her  best  lyrics.  She  had  become  very  popular  as  a  writer 
in  America,  and  had  received  a  handsome  offer  from  a  Boston  publishei 
to  edit  a  periodical  there,  which  would  have  been  of  great  pecuniary  benefit 
to  her.  But  of  all  writers  of  whom  we  have  heard  or  read,  Mrs.  Hemans 
had  the  most  home  proclivities. 

Retiring,  dreamy,  modest,  and  perchance  saddened  by  her  domestic 
history,  she  nestled  in  the  shelter  of  her  mother's  or  her  own  home,  and 
had  no  desire  to  see  the  lands  whose  natural  features  her  imagination  so 
vividly  reproduced  at  second  hand.  Meantime  she  had  made  many  lite- 
rary friends,  one  of  the  most  enthusiastic  being  Miss  Jewsbury,  afterwards 
Mrs.  Fletcher.  She  corresponded  with  Joanna  Baillie,  Miss  Bowles, 
Mary  Howitt,  Miss  Mitford,  Dean  Mihnan,  and  Dr.  Channing. 

In  the  year  following  her  mother's  death,  Mrs.  Hemans'  connexion  with 
Blackwood's  Magazine  began.  That  firm  published  also  her  "  Records  of 
Woman,"  Her  "  Hymns  for  Childhood"  were  published  in  America  in 
1827. 

In  the  following  year  she  removed  with  her  family  to  Wavertree,  near 
Liverpool,  sending  her  two  elder  sons  at  the  same  time  to  Rome  to  the 
care  of  their  father,  who  had  always  been  consulted  in  all  matters  relating 
to  their  training  and  education.  During  her  residence  at  Wavertree 
(which  proved  very  uncongenial  to  her),  she  studied  music  under  Zeugheer 
Hermann,  and  composed  airs  for  some  of  her  own  lyrics.  She  had 
played  on  the  harp  and  piano  from  her  youth,  and  had  great  facility  in 
sketching  from  nature ;  in  fact,  few  women  have  ever  possessed  the  varied 
gifts  of  Felicia  Hemans — beauty,  talent  of  all  kinds,  and  a  fine  moral 
nature. 

In  1829  she  visited  Scotland,  and  became  acquainted  with  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  between  whom  and  herself  a  sincere  liking  and  friendship  began, 
which  continued  to  the  end.  In  1830  she  visited  Wordsworth  at  Mpunt 
Rydal,  who  also  yielded  to  the  spell  of  her  gentleness  and  genius,  and  when 
the  grave  had  closed  over  her,  paid  a  poetical  tribute  to  her  memory. 
Here  (at  Ambleside)  she  remained  in  a  cottage  called  "  Dove's  Nest"  with 
her  boys  for  the  summer.  She  revisited  Scotland,  and  then  returned  to 
Wales  for  the  last  time. 

Wavertree  had  proved,  as  we  have  said,  uncongenial  to  her ;  the 
family  in  Wales  had  been  broken  up  by  the  death  of  her  mother,  and 
Mrs.  Hemans  now  thought  of  making  a  new  home  in  Ireland,  Major 
Browne,  her  brother,  having  been  appointed  Commissioner  of  Police  in 
Dublin,  and  being  desirous  of  having  his  gifted  sister  near  him ;  so,  in 
the  spring  of  1831,  she  embarked  for  the  Irish  capital  Here  her  health 
improved,  and  she  formed  some  valuable  friendships,  notably  with  the 
family  of  Archbishop  Whately. 

Her  "  Lyrics  and  Songs  for  Music,"  were  first  published  in  Dublin. 
The  "  Scenes  and  Hymns  of  Life,"  a  volume  of  religious  poems,  was  the 
last  published  during  her  lifetime — dedicated  to  Wordsworth,  and  still 
copyright.  Mrs.  Hemans  resided  while  in  Dublin,  in  Upper  Pembroke 
Street,  St  Stenheu  Greei*  -md  Dawson  Street ;  and  now  the  end  of  hei 


PREFATORY  MEMOIR. 

short  and  brilliant  existence  was  drawing  near.  Her  health  failed,  and  she 
was  nearly  always  condemned  to  keep  on  her  sofa.  Still  she  continued 
writing.  Her  illness  was  cheered  by  the  presence  of  her  brother  and  his 
wife,  and  her  sister,  Mrs.  Hughes  ;  while  Charles  and  Henry,  her  two 
younger  sons,  rewarded  her  maternal  love  by  their  filial  devotion.  It  was 
about  this  time  that  a  stranger  sought  an  interview  with  her,  and  gave  her 
the  delight  of  hearing  that  her  poem  "  The  Sceptic"  had  been  the  means  of 
converting  him  to  a  belief  in  Christianity.  As  her  mind  was  at  this  time 
deeply  imbued  with  religious  feeling,  she  probably  rightly  estimated  this 
fact  as  the  best  part  of  her  renown,  the  fullest  reward  of  her  efforts  for 
good. 

In  the  summer  of  1834  Mrs.  Hemans  was  attacked  by  scarlet  fever,, 
which  left  her  extremely  weak.    A  cold  supervened,  caught  from  having  j 
sat  too  long  reading  in  the  gardens  of  the  Dublin  Society.    The  cold  was 
followed  by  ague  and  hectic  fever  attended  by  symptoms  of  dropsy. 
During  an  interval  of  convalescence  she  paid  a  visit  to  her  friends  the 
Whatelys  at  Redesdale,  a  country  seat  of  the  Archbishop's,  but  she 
returned  from  it  much  worse,  having  nearly  lost  the  use  of  her  limbs. 

On  the  1 6th  of  May,  1835,  at  ^e  a£e  °f  forty-one,  she  passed  quietly 
away  to  the  "  Better  Land,"  of  which  she  had  so  touchingly  written.  She 
was  interred  in  a  vault  beneath  the  church  of  St.  Anne's,  Dublin.  She 
died,  as  she  had  once  wished,  in  the  spring. 

"  With  the  bright  sunshine  laughing  around,  it  (death)  seems  more  sad 
to  think  of,"  she  says  in  one  of  her  letters.  "  Yet,  if  I  could  choose  when 
I  would  wish  to  die,  it  should  be  in  the  spring — the  influence  of  that 
season  is  so  strangely  depressing  to  my  heart  and  frame."  ("  Memoir," 
pp.  66  and  68.) 

Many  of  our  readers  will  understand  and  sympathize  with  this  feelinp 
and  recall  Keble's  exquisite  lines : — 

Well  may  I  guess  and  feel 

Why  autumn  should  be  sad, 
But  vernal  hours  should  sorrow  heal, 

Spring  should  be  gay  and  glad  1 
Yet  as  along  this  violet  bank  I  rove, 

The  languid  sweetness  seems  to  choke  my  breath  ; 
I  sit  me  down  beside  the  hazel  grove, 

And  sigh,  and  half  could  wish  my  weariness  were  death- 
Mrs.  Hemans  had  her  greatest  popularity,  perhaps,  in  her  own  day. 
Critics — with  the  exception  of  her  first  foe  and  the  theatrical  public- 
lauded  her  efforts  uniformly ;  the  people  loved  her  sweet  strains,  and 
musical  young  ladies  rejoiced  in  the  songs  set  to  charming  melodies  by 
her  sister.  It  is  said  that  Sir  Walter  Scott  never  tired  of  listening  to 
her  "  Captive  Knight,"  sung  to  the  music  composed  by  that  sister, 
Mrs.  Hughes,  who  wrote  the  u  Memoir"  above  cited. 

Time  has  somewhat  diminished  this  popularity.  The  spirit  of  the 
present  day  undoubtedly  does  not  harmonize  with  the  purity  and  softness 
of  this  poetess  of  the  early  part  of  the  century.  Nevertheless,  amongst  a 
large  class  of  readers  Mrs.  Hemans  is  still  a  great  favourite.  Her  intense 


PREFATORY  MEMOIR. 

love  of  nature,  her  strong  .family  affection,  the  thousand  tender  glimpses 
of  home-life  to  be  found  in  her  poems,  will  have  a  lasting  attraction  for 
the  young  of  her  own  sex  ;  while  many  of  her  best  shorter  poems,  as 
"  The  Treasures  of  the  Deep,"  "  The  Dying  Soldier,"  "  The  Voice  of 
Spring,"  &c.  &c.,  will  live  as  long  as  the  language  ;  and  perchance,  when 
the  vexed  pulse  of  this  feverish  age  shall  have  subsided  into  a  wiser  calm, 
and  an  intellectual  repose,  her  poems  will  be  as  much  loved  as  they  were 
when  Heber,  Scott,  Wordsworth,  and  Whately  united  in  commending 
and  admiring  them.  Lord  Jeffrey  bore  strong  testimony  to  her  powers  in 
an  admirable  critique  on  her  poems  in  the  Edinburgh  Review  after  the 
publication  of  the  "  Records  of  Women." 

"  We  think,"  he  says,  "  the  poetry  of  Mrs.  Hemans  a  fine  exemplifi- 
cation of  female  poetry,  and  we  think  it  has  much  of  the  perfection  wnich 
we  have  ventured  to  ascribe  to  the  happier  productions  of  female  genius. 

"  It  may  not  be  the  best  imaginable  poetry,  and  may  not  indicate  the 
highest  and  most  commanding  genius,  but  it  embraces  a  great  deal  of 
that  which  gives  the  very  best  poetry  its  chief  power  of  oleasing,  and 
would  strike  us,  perhaps,  as  more  impassioned  and  exalted  if  it  were  not 
regulated  and  harmonized  by  the  most  beautiful  taste.  It  is  infinitely 
Bweet,  elegant,  and  tender — touching,  perhaps,  and  contemplative  rather 
than  vehement  and  overpowering ;  and  not  only  finished  throughout  with 
an  exquisite  delicacy  and  even  severity  of  execution,  but  informed  with  & 
purity  and  loftiness  of  feeling,  and  a  certain  sober  and  humble,  tone  of 
indulgence  and  piety,  which  must  satisfy  all  judgments  and  allay  the 
apprehensions  of  those  who  are  most  afraid  of  the  passionate  exaggera- 
tion of  poetry. 

"The  diction  is  always  beautifully  harmonious  and  free,  and  the 
themes,  though  of  infinite  variety,  uniformly  treated  with  a  grace,  origi- 
nality, and  judgment  which  mark  the  same  master  hand.    ...... 

Though  occasionally  expatiating  somewhat  fondly  and  at  large  amongst 
the  sweets  of  her  own  planting,  there  is,  on  the  whole,  a  great  condensa- 
tion and  brevity  in  most  of  her  pieces,  and,  almost  without  exception,  a 
most  judicious  and  vigorous  conclusion.    The  great  merit,  however,  of 
her  poetry  is  its  tenderness  and  its  beautiful  imagery.  ....    Almost 

all  her  poems  are  rich  with  fine  descriptions,  and  studded  over  with 
images  of  visible  beauty.  But  these  are  never  idle  ornaments.  All  her 
pomps  have  a  meaning,  and  her  flowers  and  her  gems  are  arranged,  as 
they  are  said  to  be  among  Eastern  lovers,  so  as  to  speak  the  language  of 
truth  and  passion.  This  is  peculiarly  remarkable  in  some  little  pieces 
which  seem  at  first  sight  to  be  purely  descriptive,  but  are  soon  found  to 
tell  upon  the  heart  with  a  deep  moral  and  pathetic  impression.  But  it  is 
a  truth  nearly  as  conspicuous  in  the  greater  part  of  her  productions,  where 
we  scarcely  meet  with  any  striking  sentiment  that  is  not  ushered  in  by 
some  such  symphony  of  external  nature,  and  scarcely  a  lovely  picture 
that  does  not  serve  as  a  foreground  to  some  deep  and  lofty  emotion." 
(Edinburgh  Review,  No.  99.) 

Such  is  a  very  brief  portion  of  the  long  and  masterly  article  in  which 
{he  great  reviewer  discussed  the  works  of  the  favourite  poetess  of  her  day. 


PREFATORY  MEMOIR. 

We  recommend  our  lady  readers  to  peruse  it  in  its  entirety,  as  it  com- 
mences with  an  estimate  of  womanly  powers  which  appears  to  us  to 
answer  many  of  the  vexed  questions  of  the  present  day. 

We  have  heard  that  Mrs.  Hemans  regretted  that  circumstances  and 
the  friendly  importunities  of  her  admirers  had  induced  her  to  write  so 
fast  ;  but  we  think  that,  from  the  period  which  followed  the  publication 
of  "  Modern  Greece,"  we  could  ill  spare  any  of  her  productions. 

A  'great  many  specimens  of  her  juvenile  poems  are  given  in  this  edition 
— all,  in  fact,  of  any  importance.  They  are  remarkable  for  great  smooth- 
ness of  metre  and  some  taste  and  fancy,  but  of  course  cannot  compare 
with  the  productions  of  her  more  mature  years.  We  believe  that  all  her 
best  poems  will  be  found  in  the  present  volume,  which  contains  some  few 
not  to  be  met  with  in  any  other  edition. 

The  domestic  fireside  can,  we  believe,  have  no  pleasanter  companion 
than  her  Poems  will  prove  ;  while  mothers  may  safely  place  them  in  the 
hands  of  their  children,  certain  that  nothing  but  moral  good  can  be  ob- 
tained from  them,  and  that  noble  sentiments  and  the  acquirement  of  a  fine 
and  correct  taste  are  a  natural  consequence  of  the'Study  of  Mrs.  Hemans' 
poems. 

We  add,  in  conclusion,  a  portion  of  the  exquisite  lines  in  which 
Wordsworth  lamented  her  death  in  conjunction  with  those  of  bis  earlier 
brethren  in  art  : — 

Like  clouds  that  rake  the  mountain  summits 

Or  waves  that  own  no  curbing  hand, 
How  fast  has  brother  followed  brother. 

From  sunshine  to  the  sunless  land  1 

Yet  I,  whose  lids  from  infant  slumber 

Were  earlier  raised,  remain  to  hear 
A  timid  voice  that  asks  in  whisper 

"  Who  next  will  drop  and  disappear  >'* 

Our  haughty  life  is  crowned  with  darkness 

Like  London  with  its  own  black  wreath, 
On  which  with  thee,  O  Crabbe  1  forth-looking 

I  gazed  from  Hampstead's  breezy  heath. 

As  if  but  yesterday  departed, 

Thou  too  art  gone  before ;  but  why, 
Our  ripe  fruit  seasonably  gathered, 

Should  frail  survivors  heave  a  sigh  ? 

Mourn  rather  for  that  holy  spirit, 

Sweet  as  the  spring,  as  ocean  deept 
For  her'  who  ere  her  summer  faded, 

Has  sunk  into  a  breathless  sleep  I 

November,  1835. 

Trie  Editor  has  to  thank  Charles  Hemans,  Esq.— son  of  the  poetess— 
for  a  very  kind  and  courteous  revision  of  this  memoir  and  poems  since 
ihe  original  publication  of  the  work. 

'  Felicia  Hemans—  j$  May,  1835, 


THE    POETICAL   WORKS 


MRS.    HEMANS. 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 

SELECTED  AS  SPECIMENS  OF  MRS.  HEMANS'  EARLY  TALENT. 


ON  MY  MOTHER'S  BIRTHDAY. 

WRITTEN  AT  EIGHT  YEARS  OF  AGE, 

CLAD  in  all  their  brightest  green, 
This  day  the  verdant  fields  are  seen  ; 
The  tuneful  birds  begin  their  lay, 
To  celebrate  thy  natal  day. 

The  breeze  is  still,  the  sea  is  calm. 
And  the  whole  scene  combines  to  charm 
The  flowers  revive,  this  charming  May, 
Because  it  is  thy  natal  day. 

The  sky  is  blue,  the  day  serene, 
And  only  pleasure  now  is  seen  ; 
The  rose,  the  pink,  the  tulip  gay, 
Combine  to  bless  thy  natal  day. 


PITY;  AN  ALLEGORY,  VERSIFIED. 

WRITTKN  AT  KLBVKN  YEARS  OP  AGE. 

I  N  that  blest  age  when  never  care  annoyed, 
Nor  mortals'  peace  by  Discord  was   de- 
stroyed, 

A  happy  pair  descended  from  above, 
And  gods  and  mortals  named  them  Joy 

and  Love. 

Together  had  they  seen  each  opening  day, 

Together  shared  each  sportive  infant  play ; 

In  riper  years  with  glowing  warmth  they 

loved ;  [approved. 

Jove    saw  their    passion    and    his    nod 

Long  happy  did  they  live,  when  cruel  fate 

From  hliss  to  misery  changed  their  envied 

SUMS. 


Mankind  grew  wicked,  and  the  gods  severe, 
And  Jove's  dread  anger  shook  the  trem- 
bling sphere. 

To  Joy  he  sent  his  high  behest  to  fly 
On  silken  pinions  to  her  native  sky. 
Reluctant  she  obeys,  but  Love  remains, 
By  Hope  his  nurse  led  to  Arcadia's  plains  : 
When  from,  his  starry  throne,  the  mighty 

Jove 
In  thunder  spoke :    "  Let  Sorrow  wed  to 

Love  t" 
The  awful  stem  command  Love  trembling 

hears ; 
Sorrow  was  haggard,  pale,  and  worn  with 

tears, 
Her  hollow  eyes   and  pallid  cheeks  con 

fest, 
That  hapless  misery  "  knows  not  where  Id 

rest."  . 
Forced  to  submit,  Love's  efforts  were  in 

vain ; 
The  Thunderer's   word    must   ever  finn 

remain. 
No  nymphs  and  swains  to  grace  the  nuptia 

day 
Approach,  no  smiling  Cupids  round  then 

play, 
No  festal  dance  was  there,  no  husband  'i 

pride,  < 

For  Love  in  sadness  met  his  joyless  bride. 
One  child,  one  tender  girl,  to  Love  sh< 

bore, 

Who  all  her  father's  pensive  beauty  wore  4 
So  soft  her  aspect,  the  Arcadian  s*vaiiu>  • 
Had  named  her  Pity — and  her  name  re- 
mains. 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


In  early  youth  for  others'  woe  she  felt 
Adversity  had  taught  her  how  to  melt 
Love's  myrtle,  Sorrow's   cypress  she  com- 
bined, [forehead  twined. 
And  formed  a  wreath  which  round  her 
Sbe  oft  sat  musing  in  Arcadia's  shades. 
And  played  her  lute  to  charm  the  native 

maids. 

A  ringdove  flew  for  safety  to  her  breast ; 
A  robin  in  her  cotfage  built  its  nest. 
Her  mother's  steps  she  follows  close ;  to 
bind  [kind, 

Those  wounds  her  mother  made :  divinely 
Into  each  troubled  heart  she  pours  her  balm, 
And  brings  the  mind  a  transitory  calm. 
But  both  are  mortal ;  and  when  fades  the 
earth,  [her  birth  ; 

The  nymph  shall  die,  with  her  who  gave 
Then,  to  elysium  Love  shall  wing  his  flight, 
And  he  and  Joy  for  ever  re-unite. 

A   PRAYER. 
WRITTEN  AT  NINE  YEARS  or  AGR. 

O  GOD,  my  father  and  my  friend, 
Ever  thy  blessings  to  me  send  ; 
Let  me  have  virtue  for  my  guide, 
And  wisdom  always  at  my  side  ; 
Thus  cheerfully  through  life  I'll  go, 
Nor  ever  fed  the  sting  of  woe  ; 
Contented  with  the  humblest  lot, 
Happy,  though  in  the  meanest  cot. 


MORNING. 

Now  rosy  morning,  clad  in  light. 
Dispels  the  darkling  clouds  of  night, 
The  sun,  in  gold  and  purple  drest, 
Illumines  all  adown  the  east ; 
The  skylark  flies  on  soaring  wings, 
And  as  be  mounts  to  heaven,  thus  sings  : 
"Arise,  ye  slothful  mortals,  rise  I 
See  me  ascending  to  the  skies  : 
Ye  never  taste  the  joys  of  dawn. 
Ye  never  roam  the  dewy  lawn, 
Ye  see  not  Phoebus  rising  now. 
Tinging  with  gold  the  mountain's  bro*  ; 
Ye  ne'er  remark  the  smiling  land, 
Nor  see  the  early  flowers  expand. 
Then  rise,  ye  slothful  mortals,  rise, 
See,  I  am  mounting  to  the  skies." 

ON  A   ROSE. 

How  short,  sweet    flpwer,  have  all  thy 

beauties  been  !  [are  seen  : 

AD  hour  they  bloomed,  and  now  no  more 


So  human  grandeur  fades,  so  dies  away « 
Beauty  and  wealth  remain  but  for  a  day. 
But  virtue  lives  for  ever  in  the  mind, 
In  her  alone  true  happiness  we  find  : 
The  perfume  stays,  although  the  rose  be 

dead , 
So  virtue  lives,  when  every  grace  is  fled. 


WRITTEN  IN  NORTH  WALES. 

OH  !  happy  regions  of  delight  and  joy, 
And  much-loved  scenes  of  bliss  without 
alloy ;  [woodlands  dear, 

Hail!    to    your    mountains,    groves,   and 
Hail !  to  your  flowery  lawns  and  streamlets 

clear; 

Hail !  to  your  lowly  cots. and  stately  parks. 
And  hail !  your  meadows  green  and  soar- 
ing larks.  [bowers, 
Observe    yon  verdant   fields    and  shady 
Wherein  I've  passed  r    many  happy  hours ; 
See,  too,  yon  rugged  hill,  upon  whose  brow 
Majestic  trees  and  woods  aspiring  grow. 
There  to  the  right,  the  vale  of  Clwyd  ends; 
Here  to  the  left,  huge  Penmaen  Mawr 
extends :  [o'er 
Look  to  the  south,  the  Cambrian  mountains 
Hark  I  to  the  north,  the  ocean's  awful  roar. 
Remark  those  lowing  herds  and  sportive 
sheep,                                  [who  keep. 
And  watchful  shepherds  too,  their  flocks 
Behold  yon  ships,  now  on  the  glassy  main. 
Which  spread  the  sails,  their  destined  port 
to  gain.  [soul, 
These  lovely  prospects,  how  they  cheer  my 
With  what  delight  and  joy  I  view  the  whole! 
Accept,  Great  GOD,  thanks  for  these  bless- 
ings giv'n, 
And  may  my  gratitude  ascend  to  heaven. 


TO   HOPE. 

FAIR  enchantress,  gaily  kind, 

Sweet  the  dream  inspired  by  thce  ; 
Ever  bless  thy  poet  s  mind 

With  thy  heavenly  energy. 
Thine,  oh  !  Hope,  the  magic  art, 
To  charm  the  sorrows  of  the  heart ; 
To  chase  the  fond,  the  plaintive  sigh; 
With  visions  of  felicity  I 
Ah  !  when  real  joys  are  o'er, 
And  love  and  peace  delight  no  more, 
Then  thy  melting  syren-voice 
Bids  the  pensive  mind  rejoice. 
Ah  !  thy  dreams  are  too  beguiling  ! 
Ah  I  thy  prospect  is  too  smiling 


JUVENILE  POEMB. 


Welcome  still,  thy  dear  illusions  : 
Ever  sweet  thy  wild  effusions  ; 
Fair  enchantress,  gaily  kind, 
Ever  bless  thy  poet's  mind, 
Thine  the  inspiring  song  of  peace, 
Soon  the  plaint  of  woe  shall  cease  ; 
Soon  again  a  brighter  guest 
Calm  the  mourning  soul  to  rest. 
Roses  in  thy  path  shall  bloom  ; 
Think,  oh  !  think  of  .joys  to  come  I 
Come,  Hope,  and  all  my  steps  attend, 
Oh  I  ever  be  my  bosom  friend  ; 
To  me  thy  fairest  dreams  impart, 
And  whisper  comfort  to  my  heart. 
Oh  1  shed  thy  sweet  enchanting  ray, 
To  bless  my  wild  romantic  way 
In  thy  magic  scene  we  view 
Gay  delusions,  seeming  true. 
Sweet  musician,  gaily  kind, 
Ever  bless  thy  poet's  mind  I 


TO   FANCY. 

OH  1  thou  visionary  queen, 

t  love  thy  wild  and  fairy  scene, 

Bid  for  me  thy  landscape  glow, 

To  thee  my  first  effusions  flow. 

I  court  the  dreams  that  banish  cart. 

And  hail  thy  palace  of  the  air. 

Oh  !  bless  thy  youthful  poet's  hours, 

And  let  me  cull  thy  sweetest  flowers. 

Ever  can  thy  magic  please. 

And  give  a  care  to  transient  ease. 

View  the  poor  man  toiling  hard, 

Of  the  joys  of  life  debarred, 

Thy  power  his  lovely  dream  will  bless, 

In  thy  brightest  rainbow  dress ; 

With  flattering  pleasures  round  him  smile 

In  soft  enchantment  for  awhile.  ( 

Thy  dear  illusions  melt  away  , 

Ye  heavenly  visions,  why  decay  I 

Oh  !  thou  visionary  maid, 

Formed  to  brighten  life's  dark  shade, 

Let  me  soar  with  thee  on  high, 

To  realms  of  immortality  I 

Hope,  thy  sisjer,  airy  queen, 

Forms  with  thee  her  lovely  scene. 

Oh  I  thou  visionary  maid, 

Lend  my  soul  thy  magic  aid, 

To  cheer  with  rairbows  every  shade. 


THE  LILY  OF  THE  VALE. 
SEE,  bending  to  the  gentle  gale. 
The  modest  lily  of  the  vale  ; 


Hid  in  its  leaf  of  tender  green, 
Mark  its  soft  ami  simple  mien. 
Thus  sometimes  Merit  blooms  retired. 
By  genius,  taste,  and  fancy  fired  : 
And  thus  'tis  oft  the  wanderer's  lot, 
To  rove  to  Merit's  peaceful  cot, 
As  I  have  found  the  lily  sweet, 
That  blossoms  in  this  wild  retreat. 


YOUTH. 

OH  t  halcyon  Yomn,  delightful  hours, 
When  not  a  cloud  of  sorrow  lowers  ; 
When  every  moment  wings  its  flight, 
To  waft  new  joy  and  new  delight. 
Kind,  unsuspecting,  and  sincere, 
Youth  knows  no  pang,  no  jealous  fear  ; 
And  sprightly  Health,  with  cherub  face 
Enlivens  ev'ry  opening  grace  ; 
And  laughing  Pleasure  hovers  near, 
And  tranquil  Peace  to  youth  is  dear. 
If  Sorrow  heave  the  little  breast, 
There  plaintive  Sorrow  cannot  rest  ; 
For  swiftly  flies  the  transient  pain, 
And  Pleasure  re-assumes  her  reign. 
The  tale  the  sons  of  woe  impart. 
Vibrates  upon  the  youthful  heart  ; 
The  soul  is  open  to  belief, 
And  Pity  flies  to  soften  grief. 
Hope  with  sweet  expressive  eye, 
Mirth  and  gay  Felicity  ; 
Fancy  in  her  lively  dress ; 
Pity  who  delights  to  bless  ; 
Innocence,  and  candid  Truth, 
These  and  more  attend  on  Youth. 


WRITTEN  ON  THE  SEA-SHORE 

AT  TBN  YKARS  OF  AGE. 

How  awful,  how  sublime  this  view, 
Each  day  presenting  something  new  I 
Hark  1  now  the  seas  majestic  roar, 
And  now  the  birds  their  warblings  pour ! 
Now  yonder  lark's  sweet  notes  resound, 
And  now  an  awful  stillness  reigns  around 


HYMN. 

GREAT  GOD  I  at  whose  "creative  word 
Arising  Nature  owned  her  Lord  ; 
At  whose  behest,  from  gloomy  night 
The  earth  arose  in  order  bright  1 
To  whom  the  poet  swells  the  song, 
And  cherub's  loftier  notes  belong : 


JUVENILE  POEMS 


To  Thee  be  glory,  honour,  praise  ; 
Great  GOD  !  who  canst  depress  or  raise. 

Say,  all  ye  learned,  all  ye  wise, 
What  towering  pillars  prop  the  skies  ? 
What  massy  chain  suspends  the  earth  ? 
'Tis  His  high  power  who  gave  it  birth. 
'Tis  He  who  sends  the  grateful  shower ; 
'Tis  He  who  paints  the  glowing  flower, 
Let  the  loud  anthem  raise  the  strain, 
While  echo  murmurs  it  again. 

And  ye  who  wander  o'er  the  sheaf-crowned 

fields, 

Praise  Him  for  all  the  plenty  harvest  yields  ; 
Let  harp  and  voice  their  swelling  notes 

combine  [divine. 

To  praise  all  Nature's  God,  the  Architect 


LIBERTY. 

AN  ODE. 

WHERE  the  bold  rock  majestic  towers  on 
high, 

Projecting  to  the  sky ; 
Where  the  impetuous  torrent's  rapid  course 

Dashes  with  headlong  force  ; 
Where  scenes  less  wild,  less  awful,  meet 

the  eye, 

And  cultured  vales  and  cottages  appear  ; 
Where  softer  tints  the  mellow  landscape 

dye, 

More  simply  beautiful,  more  fondly  dear ; 
There  sportive  Liberty  delights  to  rove, 

To  rove  unseen, 
In  the  dell  or  in  the  grove. 
Midst  woodlands  green. 

And  when  placid  eve  advancing, 
Faintly  shadows  all  the  ground  ; 

Liberty,  with  Hebe  advancing, 
Wanders  through  the  meads  around. 

Fair  wreaths  of  brightest  flowers  she  loves 
to  twine, 

Moss-rose,  and  bluebell  wild  ; 
The  pink,  the  hyacinth  with  these  combine, 

And  azure  violet,  Nature's  sweetest  child ! 

When  the  moonbeam,  silvery  streaming, 
Pierces  through  the  myrtle  shade ; 

Oien  her  eye  with  pleasure  beaming, 
She  trips  along  the  sylvan  glade. 

She  loves  to  sing  in  accents  soft, 
When  the  wood  lark  soars  aloft ; 
She  loves  to  wake  the  sprightly  bom, 
Ajid  swell  the  joyful  note  to  celebrate  the 
morn  I 


In  the  dell  or  in  the  grove. 
Liberty  delights  to  rove  ; 
By  the  ruined  moss-grown  tower, 
By  the  woodland,  or  the  bower ; 
On  the  summit  thence  to  view 
The  landscape  clad  in  varied  hue  ; 
By  the  hedgerow  on  the  lawn, 
Sporting  with  the  playful  fawn  ; 
Where  the  winding  river  flows, 
And  the  pensile  osier  grows, 
In  the  cool  impervious  grovt, 
Liberty  delights  to  rove. 


MY    BROTHER    AND    SISTER. 
IN  THE  COUNTRY. 

WRITTEN  IN   LONDON. 

HAPPY  soon  we'll  meet  again, 
Free  from  sorrow,  care,  and  pain ; 
Soon  again  we'll  rise  with  dawn, 
To  roam  the  verdant  dewy  lawn. 
Soon  the  budding  leaves  we'll  hail, 
Or  wander  through  the  well-known  vale 
Or  weave  the  smiling  wreath  of  flowers, 
And  sport  away  the  light-winged  hours. 
Soon  we'll  run  the  agile  race, 
Soon,  dear  playmates,  we'll  embrace  ; 
Through  the  wheat-field  or  the  grove, 
We'll  hand  in  hand  delighted  rove , 
Or,  beneath  some  spreading  oak, 
Ponder  the  instructive  book  ; 
Or  view  the  ships  that  swiftly  glide, 
Floating  on  the  peaceful  tide  : 
Or  raise  again  the  carolled  lay  ; 
Or  join  again  in  mirthful  play  ; 
Or  listen  to  the  humming  bees, 
As  their  murmurs  swell  the  breeze ; 
Or  seek  the  primrose  where  it  springs  ; 
Or  chase  the  fly  with  painted  wings  : 
Or  talk  amidst  the  arbour's  shade  ; 
Or  mark  the  tender  shooting  blade  ; 
Or  stray  beside  the  babbling  stream. 
When  Luna  sheds  her  placid  beam  ; ' 
Or  gaze  upon  the  glassy  sea  ; 
Happy,  happy,  shall  we  be. 


ODE  TO  MIRTH. 

THOU,  O  Mirth,  with  laughing  eye. 
Spread  thy  empire  o'er  my  sou! ; 

No  cares  obtrude  when  thou  art  by, 
To  crown  the  bright  nectarious  bowl 

Leave  the  rich  to  pomp  and  splendour, 
Happiness  they  cannot  render. 
Let  the  miser  heap  his  hoard  ; 
Mirth  shall  bless  the  festive  board. 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


Friendship  and  the  smiling  muse 
Their  influence  all  around  diffuse. 

Now  the  flute  with  mellow  sound 

Invites  thee  to  the  feast ; 
rhe  lively  hautboy  echoes  round. 

We  form  the  sprightly  iest. 

O'er  the  mantling  generous  wine, 
Good  humour  and  delight  combine : 
Genial  Pleasure  for  awhile, 
Bids  her  votaries  gaily  smile. 
Pleasure  twines  the  rosy  wreath. 
And  bids  inspiring  music  breathe, 
While  we  lead  the  circling  dance ; 
Oh !  Mirth,  to  join  the  airy  maze,  advance. 

Mirth  has  heard  the  festive  measure. 
We  devote  the  day  to  pleasure ; 
Let  the  miser  heap  his  hoard, 
Mirth  shall  crown  the  social  board. 


THE  RUINED  CASTLE. 

OH  !  let  me  sigh  to  think  this  ruined  pile 
Was  favoured  once  with  fortune's  radiant 

smile ;  [towers, 

These  moss-grown  battlements,  these  ivied 
Have  seen  prosperity's  uncertain  hours ; 
Their  heroes  triumphed  in  the  scenes  of  war, 
While  victory  followed  in  her  trophied  car. 
Here,  where  I  muse  in  meditation's  arms, 
Perhaps  the  battle  raged  with  loud  alarms  ; 
Here  glory's  crimson  banner  waving  spread, 
While  laurel  crowns  entwined  the  victor's 

head ;  [tear> 

And  here,  perhaps,  with  many  a  plaintive 
The  mourner  has  bedewed  the  soldier's  bier. 
The  scene  of  conquest  pensive  fancy  draws, 
Where  thousands  fell,  enthusiasts  in  their 

cause. 

Yon  turret  mouldered  by  the  hand  of  time 
Shaded  by  silver  ash  and  spreading  lime, 
Was  once,  perhaps,  the  hall  of  mirth  and 

joy, 

Where  warriors  sought  no  longer  todestroy ; 
And  where,  perhaps,  the  hoary-headed  sage, 
Would  lead  them  o'er  the  animating  page  ; 
Where  history  points  to  glorious  ages  fled, 
And  tells  the  noble  actions  of  the  dead. 
Still  fancy,  with  a  magic  power  recalL 
The  time  when  trophies  graced  the  lofty 

walls:  [art 

When  with  enchanting  spells  the  minstrel's 
Could  soften  and  inspire  the  melting  heart ; 
Could  raise  the  glowing  elevated  flame, 
And  bid  the  youthful  soldier  pant  for  fame; 


While  deeds  of  glory  were  the  themes  he 

sung, 

The  pleasant  harp  in  wild  accordance  rung. 
Ah  1  where  is  now  the  warrior's  ardent  fire  ? 
Where  now  the  tuneful  spirit  of  the  lyre  ? 
The  warrior  sleeps;  the  minstrel's  lay  is 

still; 

No  songs  of  triumph  echo  from  the  hill. 
Ah !  yettheweepingmuseshalllovetosigh, 
And  trace  again  thy  fallen  majesty  ; 
And  still  shall  fancy  linger  on  the  theme, 
While  forms  of  heroes  animate  her  dream. 


THE  APRIL  MORN. 

Now  a  smile,  and  now  a  frown ; 
Brightening  now,  and  now  cast  down 
Now  'tis  cheerful,  now  it  lowers ; 
Yet  sunshine  in  the  midst  of  showers. 

Now  the  sky  is  calm  and  clear ; 
Now  the  frowning  clouds  appear ; 
Evanescent  soon  they  fly ; 
Calm  and  clear  again  the  sky. 

Such  the  face  which  April  wears, 
Now  in  smiles,  and  now  in  tears , 
Like  the  life  we  lead-below, 
Full  of  joy,  and  full  of  woe. 

Lovely  prospects  now  arise ; 
Vanish  now  before  our  eyes : 
Yet,  amid  the  clouds  of  grief, 
Still  a  sunbeam  sheds  relief. 
Like  the  face  which  April  wears; 
Now  in  smiles,  and  now  in  tears. 


SHAKSPEARE. 

I  LOVE  to  rove  o'er  history's  page. 
Recall  the  hero  and  the  sage  ; 
Revive  the  actions  of  the  dead. 
And  memory  of  ages  fled  : 
Yet  it  yields  me  greater  pleasure, 
To  read  the  poet's  pleasing  measure. 
Led  by  Shakspeare,  bard  inspired, 
The  bosom's  energies  are  fired  ; 
We  learn  to  shed  the  generous  tear, 
O'er  poor  Ophelia's  sacred  bier  ; 
To  love  the  merry  moonlight  scene, 
With  fairy  elves  in  valleys  green  ; 
Or  borne  on  Fancy's  heavenly  wings, 
To  listen  while  sweet  Ariel  sings. 
How  sweet  the  "'native  wood-notes  wild 
Of  him,  the  Muse's  favourite  child  ; 
Of  him  whose  magic  lays  .impart. 
Each  various  feeling  to  the  heart. 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


MELANCHOLY. 

WHEN  Autumn  shadows  tint  the  waving 

trees, 

When  fading  foliage  flies  upon  the  breeze  ; 
When  evening  mellows  all  the  glowing  scene, 

And  the  mild  dew  descends  in  drops  of 

balm ; 
When  the  sweet  landscape  placid  and  serene, 

Inspires  the  bosom  with  a  pensive  calm  ; 
Ah  !  then  I  love  to  linger  in  the  vale, 
And  hear  the  bird  of  eve's  romantic  tale  ; 
I  love  the  rocky  sea-beach  to  explore, 
Where  the  clear  wave  flows  murmuring  to 
the  shore ;  [sound, 

To  hear  the  shepherd's   plaintive  music 
While  Echo  answers  from  the  woods  around ; 
To  watch  the  twilight  spread  a  gentle  vale 
Of  melting  shadows  o'er  the  grassy  dale, 
To  view  the  smile  of  evening  on  the  sea ; 
Ah  I  these  are  pleasures  ever  dear  to  me. 
To  wander  with  the  melancholy  muse, 
Where;  waving  trees  their  pensive  shade 

diffuse.- 
Then  by  some  secret  charm  the  softened 

mind 

Soars  high  in  contemplation  unconfined, 
To  melancholy  and  the  muse  resigned. 


FAIRY   SONG. 

ALL  my  life  is  joy  and  pleasure, 
Sportive  as  my  tuneful  measure  ; 
In  the  rose's  cup  I  dwell, 
Balmy  sweets  perfume  my  cell : 
My  food  the  crimson  luscious  cherry 
And  the  vine's  luxurious  berry  ; 
The  nectar  of  the  dew  is  mine  : 
Nectar  from  the  flowers  divine. 
And  when  I  join  the  fairy  band, 
Lightly  tripping  hand  in  hand, 
By  the  moonlight's  quivering  beam, 
In  concert  with  the  dashing  stream  ; 
Then  my  music  leads  the  dance, 
When  the  gentle  fays  advance  ; 
And  oft  my  numbers  on  the  green 
Lull  to  rest  the  fairy  queen. 
All  my  life  is  joy  and  pleasure, 
Sportive  as  my  airy  measure. 


TO  A  BUTTERFLY. 

LITTLE  fluttering  beauteous  fly, 
With  azure  wing  of  softest  dye, 
Hither  fairy  wanton  hie, 
Nor  fear  to  lose  thy  liberty : 


For  I  would  view,  thou  silly  thing. 
The  colours  of  thy  velvet  wing. 
Its  lovely  melting  tints  outvie 
The  glories  of  the  summer  sky 
Can  pencil  imitate  the  hue, 
So  soft,  so  delicate  a  blue  ? 
Well  I  know  thy  life  is  short, 
One  transient  hour  of  idle  sport  ; 
Enjoy  that  little  halcyon  hour, 
And  kiss  each  fair  and  fragrant  flower 
No  more  I'll  stay  thy  mazy  flight, 
For  short  thy  moments  of  delight. 


HYMN. 

WRITTEN   AT   TWELVE  YEARS    OF    ACS. 

0  GOD  of  mercy  1  let  my  lyre 
Speak  with  energetic  fire  ; 

And  teach  my  infant  tongue  to  raise 

The  grateful  animated  lays. 

While  musing  at  thy  hallowed  shrine, 

1  listen  to  thy  word  divine  ; 

I  bless  the  page  of  genuine  truth  ; 
Oh  I  may  its  precepts  guide  my  youth. 
To  Thee,  thou  Good  Supreme  !  I  bend 
Do  thou  the  humble  prayer  attend. 


THE  MINSTREL  TO  HIS  HARP 

WHEN  youthful  transport  led  the  hours. 
And  all  my  way  was  bright  with  flowers, 
Ah  I  then,  my  harp,  thy  dulcet  note, 
To  songs  of  joy  would  lightly  float ; 
To  thefc  I  sang  in  numbers  wild, 
Of  hope  and  love  who  gaily  smiled. 

And  now  though  young  delight  is  o'er, 
And  golden  visions  charm  no  more  ; 
Though  now,  my  harp,  thy  mellow  tone, 
I  wake  to  mournful  strains  alone  ; 
Ah  I  yet  the  pleasing  lays  impart 
A  pensive  rapture  to  my  heart. 

I  sang  to  thee  of  early  pleasures, 
In  sweet  and  animated  measure*  ; 
And  I  have  wept  o'er  griefs  ana  cares, 
And  still  have  loved  thy  magic  airs  : 
To  me  thy  sound  recalls  the  hours, 
When  all  my  way  was  bright  with  flowers 


SONG. 

SAY,  does  calm  Contentment 
In  palace  rich  or  lowly  cell  ? 


JUVENILE  POEMB. 


Fixed  to  no  peculiar  spot, 
Gilded  rooms  or  simple  cot, 
She  will  grace  the  courtly  scene, 
Or  love  to  haunt  the  village  green  : 
Where  Virtue  dwells  Content  must  be. 
And  with  her  Felicity. 

HOLIDAY  HOURS. 

INSCRIBED  TO  MY  BROTHER   CLAUDE, 

DEAR  boy,  let  us  think  of  the  pleasures  in 

spring, 

When  the  season  is  welcomed  with  gar- 
lands of  flowers ;  [the  wing, 
How  thy  moments  will  fly  with  delight  on 
How  thy  fancy  will  dwell  on  the  holiday 

hours. 

And  sweet  are  those  moments  the  young 

bosom  knows,  [home ; 

Preceding   the   social   endearments   of 

Where  maternal  affection  so  tenderly  glows, 

And  invokes  the  gay  holiday  pleasures  to 

come. 

And  oh  I  my  sweet  boy,  when  our  years 

shall  expand,         [favourite  bowers ; 

When  we  wander  no  more  through  our 

Perhaps  we  may  sigh  for  the  pleasures  so 

bland, 
The  sportive  delights  of  the  holiday  hours. 


SONG  OF  ZEPHYRUS. 

WHEN  sportive  hours  lead  on  the  rosy 
spring, 

Then  in  the  frolic  smiling  train  I  come ; 
And  wander  with  the  bee  on  sylphid  wing, 

To  kiss  each  floweret  in  its  tender  bloom. 
And  at  the  fragrant  time,  the  close  of  day, 

Or  at  the  sweet  and  pensive  moonlight 

hour, 
Then  in  the  summer  air  I  love  to  play, 

And  sport  with  Flora  in  the  dewy  bower. 
Oft  o'er  the  harp  of  winds  with  gentle  sigh, 

I  breathe  a  mellow  note,  a  mournful  lay; 
And  then  enraptured  with  the  melody, 

I  list  with  pleasure  till  the  sounds  dec'ny. 


THE   BEE. 

INSCRIBED  TO  MV    SISTRB 

MARK  how  the  neat  assiduous  bee, 
Pattern  of  frugal  industry, 

Pursues  her  earnest  toil ; 
All  day  the  pleasing  task  she  plies, 
And  to  her  cell  at  evening  hies, 

Enriched  with  golden  spoil. 


She  warns  us  to  employ  the  hours, 

In  gathering  stores  from  learning's  flowers, 

For  these  will  ever  last : 
These  mental  charms  will  fill  the  place 
Of  every  beauty,  every  grace, 

When  smiling  youth  is  past. 


THE  SONG  OF  A  SERAPH. 

"  Hark !  they  whisper !  angels  say, 
'  Sister  spirit !  come  away  !' "— POPE' 

Lo !  the  dream  of  life  is  o  er  ; 
Pain  the  Christian's  lot  no  more  I 
Kindred  spirits  I  rise  with  me, 
Thine  the  meed  of  victory. 

Now  the  angel-songs  I  hear, 
Dying  softly  on  the  ear  ; 
Spirit,  rise  1  to  thee  is  given, 
The  light  ethereal  wing  of  heaven. 

Now  no  more  shall  virtue  faint. 
Happy  spirit  of  the  saint ; 
Thine  the  halo  of  the  skies, 
Thine  the  seraph's  paradise. 


INSCRIPTION  FOR  A  HERMITAGE 

PILGRIM,  view  this  mossy  dell, 
View  the  woodland  hermit's  cell ; 
And  if  thou  love  the  rustic  scene, 
And  love  to  court  the  muse  serene ; 
If  virtue  to  thy  soul  be  dear, 
And  sometimes  melancholy's  tear ; 
Oh !  thou  wilt  view  the  vale  around, 
As  if  'twere  consecrated  ground. 
The  pious  hermit  here  retired, 
With  love  of  solitude  inspired  ; 
He  loved  the  scene  of  this  retreat, 
This  smiling  dell  to  him  was  sweet ; 
And  here  he  sought  for  hallowed  rest, 
To  calm  the  sorrows  of  his  breast ; 
And  resignation  with  a  smile, 
His  tear  of  grief  would  oft  beguile  ; 
Would  soothe  to  peace  his  tranquil  age 
In  this  romantic  hermitage. 


THE  PETITION  OF  THE  RED- 
BREAST. 

AH  1  why  did  thy  rude  hand  molest 
The  sacred  quiet  of  my  nest  ? 
No  more  I  rise  on  rapture's  win;j. 
The  ditties  of  my  love  to  sing. 
Restore  me  to  the  peaceful  vale. 
To  wander  with  the  southern  goie ; 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


Restore  me  to  the  woodland  scene, 
Komantic  glen,  or  forest  green  ; 
To  bail  the  Heaven's  ethereal  blue, 
To  drink  the  freshness  of  the  dew ; 
Now  while  my  artless  carols  flow, 
Let  pity  in  thy  bosom  glow. 
For  this,  at  mom's  inspiring  hour, 
I'll  sing  in  thy  luxuriant  bower : 
To  thee  the  breeze  of  airy  sigh 
Shall  waft  my  thirlling  melody  ; 
Thy  soul  the  cadence  wild  shall  meet. 
The  song  of  gratitude  is  sweet. 
And  at  the  pensive  close  of  day, 
When  landscape-colours  fade  away, 
Ah  I  then  the  robin's  mellow  note, 
To  thee  in  dying  tone  shall  float ; — 
Now,  while  my  plaintive  carols  flow, 
Let  pity  ijj  thy  bosom  glow ; 
And  I  will  consecrate  to  ihee 
The  wildest  note  of  liberty. 


THE  MINSTREL  BARD. 

WHERE  awful  summits  rise  around. 
With    wild    and    straggling    floweieis 

crowned ; 

Tis  there  the  poet  loves  to  sigh, 
And  touch  the  harp  of  melody 
And  wake  the  measure  of  delight 
Or  melt  in  fairy  visions  bright . 
And  sometimes  vi  ill  his  soul  as  pin . 
And  feel  almost  ethereal  fire. 
Ah  I  then  the  fond  enthusiast  drearns 
(Enraptured  with  celestial  themes,) 
That  happy  spirits  round  him  play. 
And  animate  the  magic  lay: 
Their  floating  forms  his  fancy  sees. 
And  hears  their  music  in  the  breeze. 
Then,  while  the  airy  numbers  die, 
He  wakes  his  sweetest  harmony 
To  imitate  the  heavenly  strain, 
Which  memory  fondly  calls  again. 
To  Fancy  then  he  pours  his  song, 
To  her  his  wildest  notes  belong. 
Oh  I  spirit  of  the  lyre  divine, 
1  deck  with  flowers  thy  sacred  shriue  ; 
Thus  let  me  ever  melt  with  thee, 
lu  the  soft  dreams  of  poesy. 


GENIUS. 

Now  evening stealsuponthe glowing  scene, 
Her  colours  tremble  on  the  wave  serene  ; 
The  dews  of  balm  on  languid  flowers  de- 
scend, 
The  mellow  tinges  of  the  landscape _  Wend  : 


Hail  i    placid    eve,   thy   lingering  smiles 

diffuse 
A  pensive  pleasure  to  the  lonely  raust» 

I  love  to  wander  by  the  ocean  side, 
And  hear  the  soothing  murmurs  of  the  tide; 
To  muse  upon  the  poet's  fairy-tale, 
In  fancy  wafted  to  the  moonlight  vale  : 
Sometimes  I  think  that  Ariel's  playful  bands 
Are  lightly  hovering   o'er    "these  yellow 
sands." 

'Tis  thus  that  Shakspeare.  with  inspiring 

song, 

Can  lead  the  visionary  train  along  : 
Then  by  his  magic  spell  the  scene  around, 
The   "  yellow  sands"  become  enchanted 

ground. 

But  when  the  lingering  smile  of  even  dies, 
And  when  the  mild  and  silvery  moonbeams 

rise. 

Then  sweeter  is  the  favourite  rustic  seat, 
Where  pensile  ash-trees  form  the  green 

retreat. 

Ana  mingle  with  the  richer  foliage  round, 
To  cast  a  trembling  shadow  on  the  ground. 
'Tis  there,  retired,  I  pour  the  artless  rhyme 
And  court  the  muses  at  this  tranquil  lime. 

O  Genius !  lead  me  to  Pierian  bowers. 
And  let  me  cull  a  few  neglected  flowers : 
By  all  the  poets,  fanciful  and  wild, 
Whose  tales  my  hours  of  infancy  beguiled. 
Oh  !  let  thy  spirit  animate  my  lyre, 
And  all  the  numbers  of  my  youth  insprct. 

Perhaps,  where  now  I  pour  the  simple  lays, 
Thy  bards  have  waked  the  song  of  other 

days ;  [near. 

Some  Cambrian  Ossian  may  have  wandered 
While  airy  music  murmured  in  his  ear  ; 
Perhaps,  even  here,  beneath  the  moonlight 

beam, 

He  loved  to  ponder  some  entrancing  theme; 
And  here,  while  heavenly  visions  filled  his 

eye, 

He  raised  the  strain  of  plaintive  melody; 
This  fond  idea  consecrates  the  hour, 
And  more  endears  the  calm  secluded  bower. 

Sweet  was  ih*  CamNnan  harp  in  ancient 
ume,  [sublime ; 

When  tuneful  bards  awaked  the  song 
And  minstrels  carolled  in  the  bannered  hall. 
Where  warlike  trophies  graced  the  lofty 

wall ; 

They  sang  the  legends  and  traditions  oW, 
The  deeds  of  chivalry,  and  heroes  bold. 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


9 


O  Cambria !  though  thy  sweetest  bards  are 

dead, 

And  fairies  from  thy  lovely  vales  are  fled  ; 
Still  in  thy  sons  the  musing  mind  may  trace 
The  vestige  of  thy  former  simple  race : 
Some  pious  customs  yet  preserved  with  care, 
Their  humble  village  piety  declare ; 
Ah  I  still  they  strew  the  fairest  Sowers  and 

weep,  [sleep, 

Where  buried  friends  of  sacred  memory 
The  wandering  harper,  too,  in  plaintive  lays, 
Declares  the  glory  of  departed  days  ; 
And,  Cambria,  still  upon  thy  fertile  plains, 
The  dower  of  hospitality  remains. 

Yet  shall  my  muse  the  pleasing  task  resign, 
Till  riper  judgment  all  her  songs  refine ; 
But  let  my  sportive  lyre  resume  again 
The  purposed  theme,  to   hail   another's 
strain.  [raise 

Yes,  heavenly  Genius,   I  have  heard  thee 
The  note  of  truth,  of  gratitude,  and  praise. 
'Twas  thine  with  modest  indigence  to  dwell, 
And  warble  sweetly  in  the  lowly  cell ; 
.  To  rove  with  Bloomfield  through  the  wood- 
land shade, 

And  hail  the  calm  seclusion  of  the  glade : 
Beneath  the  greenwood  canopy  reclined, 
Twas  thine  to  elevate  h:         ess  mind. 
While  in  the  lov     scene  "  to  him  so  dear, " 
He  traced  the  varied  beauties  of  the  year ; 
..nd  fondly  loitered  in  the  summer  bower, 
To  hail  the  incense  of  the  morning  hour, 
Or  through  the  rich  autumnal  landscape 

roved, 
And  raised  a  grateful  hymn  for  all  he  loved. 

O  Genius  I  ever  with  thy  favoured  band 
May  Piety  be  seen  with  aspect  bland  ; 
And  conscious  Honour  with  an  eye  serene, 
And  Independence  with  exalted  mien. 
Ah !  mayst  thou  never  to  ambition  bend, 
Nor  at  the  shrine  of  Luxury  attend ; 
But  rather  consecrate  some  tranquil  home, 
And  in  the  vale  of  peace  and  pleasure 
bloom.  [retired, 

There  mayst  thou  wander  from  the  world 
And  court  the  dreams  by  poesy  inspired; 
And  sometimes  all  thy  pleasing  spells  em- 
ploy, 

To  bid  affliction  own  a  transient  joy : 
For  oft  'tis  thine  to  chase  the  tear  away 
With  soothing  harp  and  melancholy  lay; 
And  sorrow  feels  the  magic  for  awhile, 
And  then,  with  sad  expression,  learns  to 

smile. 

Oh  I  teach  me  all  the  soft  bewitching  art, 
The  music  that  may  cheer  a  wounded  heart 


For  I  would  love  to  bid  emotion  cease, 
With  sweetest  melodies  that  whisper  peace; 
And  all  the  visions  of  delight  restore. 
The  softened  memory  of  hours  no  more. 

Ah,  Genius !  when  thy  dulcet  measures  flow, 
Then  pleasure  animates  the  cheek  of  woe  ; 
And  sheds  a  sad  and  transitory  grace, 
O'er  the  pale  beauty  of  the  languid  face. 

But  when  'tis  thine  to  feel  the  pang  of  grief, 
Without  one  melting  friend  to  bring  relief ; 
Then,  who  thy  pain  shall  soften  and  beguile, 
What  gentle  spirit  cheer  thee  with  a  smile ; 
And  bid  thy  last  departing  hopes  revive. 
And  all  thy  flattering  dreams  of  rapture  live? 
Oh  !  turn  to  Him  thy  supplicating  eye, 
The  God  of  peace  and  tenderest  charity ; 
And  He  will  bless  thee  with  consoling  power, 
And  elevate  thy  soul  in  Sorrow's  hour. 
Ah  I  then  a  pensive  beam  of  joy  shall  play, 
To  cheer  thee,  weeping  Genius,  on  thy  way : 
A  lovely  rainbow  then  for  thee  shall  rise, 
And  shed  a  lustre  o'er  the  cloudy  skies. 
Though  all  thy  fairy  prospects  are  no  more, 
And  though  the  visions  of  thyyouth  areo'.er ; 
Yet  Sorrow  shall  assume  a  softer  mien, 
Like  Melancholy,  mournful  yet  serene : 
The  placid  Muse  to  thee  her  flowers  shall 
bring,  [and  sing  ; 

And  Hope  shall  "  wave  her  golden  hair," 
With  magic  power  dispel  the  cloudson  higu. 
And  raise  the  veil  of  bright  eternity. 


SONG. 

THE  RETURN  OK  MAY. 

HAIL  !  fairy  queen,  adorned  with  flowers 
Attended  by  the  smiling  hours, 
'Tis  thine  to  dress  the  rosy  bowers 

In  colours  gay ; 

We  love  to  wander  in  thy  train. 
To  meet  thee  on  the  fertile  plain, 
To  bless  thy  soft  propitious  reign, 

O  lovely  May  I 

'Tis  thine  to  dress  the  vale  anew, 
In  fairest  verdure  bright  with  dew ; 
And  harebells  of  the  mildest  blue, 

Smile  in  thy  way  ; 

Then  let  us  welcome  pleasant  spring, 
And  still  the  flowery  tribute  bring, 
And  still  to  thee  our  carol  sing, 

O  lovely  May  I 

Now  by  the  genial  zephyr  fanned, 
The  blossoms  of  the  rose  expand ; 
And  reared  by  thee  with  gentle  hand. 
Their  chdnns  display  i 


10 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


The  air  is  balmy  and  serene, 
And  all  the  sweet  luxuriant  scene 
by  thee  is  clad  in  tender  green, 
O  lovely  May  I 


RURAL  WALKS. 

OH  I  may  I  ever  pass  my  happy  hours 
In  Cambrian  valleys  and  romantic  bowers ; 
For  every  spot  in  sylvan  beauty  drest, 
And  every  landscape  charms  my  youthful 

breast. 

And  much  I  love  to  hail  the  vernal  mom, 
Whenflowersof  spring  the  mossy  seat  adorn  ; 
And  sometimes  through  the  lonely  wood  I 

stray, 

To  cull  the  tender  rosebuds  in  my  way ; 
And  seek  in  every  wild  secluded  dell. 
The  weeping  cowslip  and  the  azure  bell ; 
With  all  the  blossoms,  fairer  in  the  dew, 
To  form  the  gay  festoon  of  varied  hue. 
And  oft  I  seek  the  cultivated  green, 
The  fertile  meadow,  and  the  village  scene  ; 
Where  rpsy  children  sport  around  the  cot, 
Or  gather  woodbine  from  the  garden  spot. 
And  there  I  wander  by  the  cheerful  rill, 
That  murmurs  near  the  osiers  and  the  mill ; 
To  view  the  smiling  peasants  rum  the  hay, 
And  listen  to  their  pleasing  festive  lay. 
I  love  to  loiter  in  the  spreading  grove, 
Or  in  the  mountain  scenery  to  rove  ; 
Where  summits  rise  in  awful  grace  around, 
With  hoary  moss  andtuf ted  verdure  crowned ; 
Where  cliffs  in  solemn  majesty  are  piled, 
"And  frown  upun  the  vale"  with  grandeur 

wild  :  [sublime, 

And  there  I  view  the  mouldering  tower 
Arrayed  in  all  the  blending  shades  of  time. 

The  airy  upland  and  the  woodland  green, 
The  valley,  and  romantic  mountain  scene  ; 
The  lowly  hermitage,  or  fair  domain, 
The  dell  retired,  or  willow-shaded  lane  ; 
"  And  every  spot  in  sylvan  beauty  drest, 
And  every  landscape  charms  my  youthful 
breast. " 


CHRISTMAS. 

THE  sunbeams  glitter  on  the  mountain  sno  w . 
And  o'er  the  summit  cast  a  transient  glow  , 
Now  silver  frost  adorns  the  drooping  bower, 
My  favourite  seat  in  summer's  happy  hour. 
Twas  there,  when  spring    the  mantling 

blossoms  shed, 
The  sweet  laburnum  clustered  o  ei  mynead : 


And  there  the  robin  formed  a  mossy  nest, 
And  gaily  carolled  in  retirement  blest ; 
Still  memory  loves   to  paint  the  glowing 
scene,  [green. 

When  autumn  tints  enriched  the  foliage 

Even  yet  the  bower  is  lovely  in  decay, 
Gilt  by  the  "sunbeam  of  a  winter's  day  ;" 
For  now  the  frost  befringes  every  thorn, 
And  sparkles  to  the  radiant  smile  of  mom  : 
The  lucid  ice  has  bound  the  mountain  rill, 
No  more  it  murmurs  by  the  cheerful  mill. 
I  hear  the  village  bells  upon  the  gale  ; 
And  merry  peasants  wander  through  the  vale ; 
In  gay  convivial  bands  they  rove  along, 
With  genuine  pleasure  and  inspiring  song  ; 
I  meet  the  rustic  troop,  and  love  to  trace 
The  smile  of  health  in  every  rosy  face. 

O  Christmas  I  welcome  to  thy  happy  reign, 
And  all  the  social  virtues  in  thy  train  ; 
The  Cambrian  harper  hails  tliy  festal  time, 
With  sportive  melody  and  artless  rhyme  : 
Unlike  the  bards  who  sung  in  days  of  old, 
And  all  the  legends  of  tradition  told  ; 
In  Gothic  castles  decked  with  banners  gay, 
At  solemn  festivals  they  poured  the  lay  : 
Their  poor   descendant  wanders  through 

the  vales, 

And  gains  a  welcome  by  his  artless  tales  ; 
He  finds  a  seat  in  every  humble  cot, 
And  hospitality  in  every  spot ; 
'Tis  now  he  bids  the  sprightly  harp  resound, 
To    bless    the    hours   with  genial  plentj 

crowned. 

And  now  the  gay  domestic  joys  we  prove, 
The  smiles  of  peace,  festivity,  and  love. 
O  Christmas  i   welcome  to  thy  hallowed 

reign, 

And  all  the  social  virtues  in  thy  train  ; 
Compassion  listening  to  the  tale  of  grief, 
Who  seeks  the  child  of  sorrow  with  relief, 
And  every  muse  with  animating  glee, 
Congenial  mirth  and  cordial  sympathy. 


SEA  PIECE  BY  MOONLIGHT 

How  sweet  to  mark  the  softened  rey 
O'er  the  ocean  lightly  play  ; 
Now  no  more  the  billows  rave, 
Clear  and  tranquil  is  the  wave ; 
While  I  view  the  vessel  glide 
O'er  the  calm  cerulean  tide. 

Now  might  fays  and  fairy  bands, 
Assemble  on  these  "  yellow  sands  ; 
For  this  the  hour,  as  poets  tell, 
That  oft  they  leave  the  flowery  cell 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


11 


And  cad  the  sporuve  dance  along, 
While  spirits  pour  the  choral  song. 
The  moonbeam  sheds  a  lustre  pale, 
And  trembles  on  the  distant  sail ; 
And  now  the  silvery  clouds  arise, 
To  veil  the  radiance  of  the  skies  ; 
But  soon  I  view  the  light  serene, 
Gild  again  the  lovely  scene. 


HARVEST  HYMN. 

Now  Autumn  strews  on  every  plain 

His  mellow  fruits  and  fertile  grain  ; 

And  laughing  Plenty  crowned  with  sheaves, 

With  purple  grapes,  and  spreading  leaves, 

In  rich  profusion  pours  around, 

Her  flowing  treasures  on  the  ground. 

Oh  !  mark  the  great,  the  liberal  hand, 

That  scatters  blessings  o'er  the  land  ; 

And  to  the  GOD  of  Nature  raise 

The  grateful  song,  the  hymn  of  praise 

The  infant  corn  in  vernal  hours, 
He  nurtured  with  his  gentle  showers, 
And  bade  the  summer  clouds  diffuse 
Their  balmy  store  of  genial  dews. 
He  marked  the  tender  stem  arise, 
Till  ripened  by  the  glowing  skies  ; 
And  now  matured,  his  work  behold, 
The  cheering  harvest  waves  in  gold. 
To  Nature's  GOD  with  joy  we  raise 
The  grateful  song,  the  hymn  of  praise. 

The  valleys  echo  to  the  strains 

Of  blooming  maids  and  village  swains  , 

To  Him  they  tune  the  lay  sincere, 

Whose  bounty  crowns  the  smiling  year. 

The  sounds  from  every  woodland  borne, 

The  sighing  winds  that  bend  the  com, 

The  yellow  fields  around  proclaim 

His  mighty  everlasting  name. 

To  Nature's  GOD  united  raise 

The  grateful  song,  the  hymn  of  praise. 


SONG  OF  A  WOOD  NYMPH. 

IN  peaceful  dells  and  woodland  glades, 

In  sweet  romantic  scenes  I  stray  ; 
And  wander  through  the  sylvan  shades, 
Where  Summer  breezes  lightly  play  : 
There  at  fervid-noon  I  lave, 
In  the  calm  pellucid  wave. 

And  oft  the  fairest  flowers  I  bring, 
To  deck  my  grotto's  mossy  seat, 

Culled  from  the  margin  of  the  spring, 
That  flows  amidst  the  green  retreat ; 


The  violet  and  the  primrose  pale. 
That  smile  uncultured  in  the  vale. 

Reclined  beneath  some  hoary  tree, 
With  tufted  moss  and  ivy  drest, 
I  listen  to  the  humming  bee, 
Whose  plaintive  tune  invites  to  rest ; 
While  the  fountain,  calm  and  clear, 
Softly  murmurs  playing  near. 

And  oft  in  solitude  I  rove 

To  hear  the  bird  of  eve  complain  ; 
When  seated  in  the  hallowed  grove, 
She  pours  her  melancholy  strain, 
In  soothing  tones  that  wake  the  tear, 
To  sorrow  and  to  fancy  dear. 

I  love  the  placid  moonlight  hour, 
The  lustre  of  the  shadowy  ray  ; 
'Tis  then  I  seek  the  dewy  bower, 
And  tune  the  wild  expressive  lay  ; 
While  echo  from  the  woods  around, 
Prolongs  the  softly  dying  sound. 

And  oft,  in  some  Arcadian  vale, 

t  touch  my  harp  of  mellow  note ; 
Then  sweetly  rising  on  the  gale, 
I  hear  celestial  music  float ; 
And  dulcet  measures  faintly  close, 
Till  all  is  silence  and  repose. 

Then  fays  and  fairy  elves  advance, 
To  hear  the  magic  of  my  song ; 
And  mingle  in  the  sportive  dance, 
And  trip  with  sylphid  grace  along  ; 
While  the  pensive  ray  serene, 
Trembles  through  the  foliage  green. 

In  peaceful  dells  and  woodland  shades, 

In  wild  romantic  scenes  I  stray  ; 
And  wander  through  the  sylvan  glades. 
With  airy  footstep  light  and  gay  ; 
Yet  still  my  favourite  lonely  spot, 
The  sweet  retirement  of  the  grot. 


THE  FAREWELL. 

WHEN  the  sad  parting  word  we  hear, 
That  seems  of  past  delights  to  tell  ; 
Who  then,  without  a  sacred  tear, 

Can  say  farewell  ? 

And  are  we  ever  doomed  to  mourn, 

That  e'en  our  joys  may  lead  to  pain  ? 
Alas  1  the  rose  without  a  thorn 

We  seek  in  vari. 

When  friends  endeared  by  absence  meet, 
Their  hours   are  crowned   with  every 

treasure; 
Too  soon  the  happy  moments  fleet 

On  wings  of  pleasure. 


12 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


Bui  *hen  the  parting  hour  is  nigh, 

What  feeling  breast  their  woes  can  tell  ? 
With  many  a  prayer  and  tender  sigh 

They  bid  farewell. 

Yet  Hope  may  charm  their  grief  away, 

And  pour  her  sweet  enchanting  strain, 
That  friends  beloved,  some  future  day, 
Shall  meet  again. 

Her  aid  the  fair  deceiver  lends, 

To  dry  the  tears  which  sadly  fell 
And  calm -the  sorrow  which  attends 

The  last  farewell. 


THE  ALPINE  SHEPHERD. 

IN  scenery  sublime  and  rude, 
In  wild  romantic  solitude, 
Where  awful  summits  crowned  with  snow 
In  soft  and  varied  colours  glow  ; 
There,  in  some  grassy  sheltered  spot, 
The  Alpine  shepherd  forms  his  cot ; 
And  there,  beside  his  peaceful  home, 
The  fairest  mountain-flowerets  bloom  ; 
There  oft  his  playful  children  climb 
The  rock  fantastic  and  sublime, 
And  cull  the  mantling  shrubs  that  creep 
And  sweetly  blossom  o'er  the  steep. 
'Tis  his  to  mark  the  morning  ray 
Upon  the  glittering  scenery  play  : 
To  watch  the  purple  evening  shade 
In  sweet  and  mellow  tinges  fade  ; 
And  hail  the  sun's  departing  smile, 
That  beams  upon  the  hills  awhile : 
And  oft,  at  moonlight  hour  serene. 
He  wanders  through  the  shadowy  scene  : 
And  then  his  pipe  with  plaintive  sound 
Awakes  the  mountain-echoes  round. 
How  dear  to  him  the  sheltered  spot. 
The  waving  pines  that  shade  his  cot  I 
His  pastoral  music  wild  and  gay, 
May  charm  his  simple  cares  away  ; 
And  never  will  he  sigh  to  roam 
Far  from  his  native  mountain-hor?1/?. 


ADDRESS  TO  MUSIC. 

OH  thou  I  whose  soft,  bewitching  lyre 
Can  lull  the  sting  of  pain  to  rest ; 

Oh  thou  !  whose  warbling  notes  inspire 
The  pensive  muse  with  visions  blest : 

Sv/eet  music  1  let  thy  melting  airs 

Enhance  my  joys  and  soothe  my  cares  I 

Is  there  enchantment  in  thy  voice, 
Thy  dulcet  harp,  thy  moving  measure  s 


To  bid  the  mournful  mind  rejoice. 

To  raise  the  fairy  form  of  pleasure  ? 
Yes,  heavenly  maid  i  a  charm  is  thine, 
A  magic  art,  a  spell  divine  I 

Sweet  music  I  when  thy  notes  we  hear, 
Some  dear  remembrance  oft  they  brin 

Of  friends  beloved,  no  longer  near, 
And  days  that  flew  on  rapture's  wing  • 

Hours  of  delight  that  long  are  past, 

And  dreams  of  joy,  too  bright  to  last  I 

And  oft  'tis  thine  the  soul  to  fire, 
With  glory's  animating  flame, 

Bid  valour's  noble  sons  aspire 
To  win  th'  immortal  wreath  of  fame, 

Thine,  top,  the  soft,  expressive  tones. 
That  pity,  tender  pity  owns  I 

Oh  harmony  !  celestial  power, 
Thou  syren  of  the  melting  soul  I 

In  sorrow's  reign,  in  pleasure's  hour, 
My  heart  shall  own  thy  blest  control : 

And  ever  let  thy  moving  airs, 

Enhance  my  joys  and  soothe  my  cares  I 


SONNET  TO  ITALY. 

FOR  thee,  Ausonia  I  Nature's  bounteoui 
hand,  [stores , 

Luxuriant  spreads  around  her  blooming 
Profusion  laughs  o'er  all  the  glowing  land, 

And  softest  breezes  from  thy  mvnleshores. 

Yet  though  for  thee  unclouded  suns  diffure 

Their  genial  radiance  o'er  thy  blushing 

plains ;  [muse 

Though  in  thy  fragrant  groves  the  sportive 

Delights  to  pout   her  wild,  enchanted 

strains ; 

Though  airs  that  breathe  of  paradise  are 
thine, 

Sweet  as  the  Indian  or  Arabian  gales, 
Though  fruitful  olive  and  empurpling  vine, 

Enrich,  fair  Italy,  thy  Alpine  vales  ; 
Yet  far  from  thee  inspiring  freedom  flies, 
To  Albion's  coast  and  ever-varying  skies. 


ADDRESS  TO   FANCY. 

OH,  queen  of  dreams  1  'tis  now  the  hour, 

Thy  fav'rite  hour  of  silence  and  of  sleep; 

Come,  bring  thy  wand,  whose  magicpowa 

Can  wake  the  troubled  spirits  of  the  deep  I 

And  while  around  on  every  eye 
The  "  honey-dews  of  sluaaber"  lit 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


18 


Oh  I  guide  me  to  the  wild  retreat, 
Where  fays  in  nightly  revel  meet ; 
And  gaily  sport  in  mystic  ring, 
By  lonely  glen  or  haunted  spring ! 

Now  every  sound  has  died  away, 

The  winds  and  waves  are  lulled  to  rest ; 
The  sighing  breeze  forgets  to  play, 
And  moonbeams  tremble  o'er  the  ocean's 
breast — 

Come,  Fancy  !  come,  creative  power  f 

That  lov'st  the  tranquil  reign  of  night : 
Perhaps  in  such  a  silent  hour,        [sight ; 
Thy  visions  charmed  the  bard  of  Avon's 
Oh,  poet  blest !  thy  guiding  hand 
Led  him  through  scenes  of  fairyland  ; 
To  him,  thy  favoured  child,  alone, 
Thy  bright,  Elysian  worlds  were  shown  1 

Come  Fancy  1  come ;  with  loved  control, 
Bewitch  thy  votary's  pensive  soul. 
Come,  sportive  charmer  I  lovely  maid  I 
In  rainbow-coloured  vest  arrayed, 
Invoke  thy  visionary  train, 
The  subjects  of  thy  gentle  reign. 

If  e'er  ethereal  spirits  meet 
On  earth,  to  pour  their  dirges  sweet ; 
Now  might  they  hover  on  the  moonbeam 

pale, 

And  breathe  celestial  music  on  the  gale. 
And  hark  I  from  yonder  distant  dell, 
I  hear  angelic  numbers  swell ! 
Ah  I  sure  some  airy  sylph  is  nigh, 
To  wake  such  heavenly  melody  ! 
Now  soft  the  dulcet  notes  decay, 
Float  on  the  breeze  and  melt  away ; 
Again  they  fall — again  they  rise, 
Ah,  now  the  soft  enchantment  dies  ! 
The  charm  is  o'er,  the  spell  is  past, 
The  v/itching  spell,  too  sweet  to  last  I 

Hail,  Fancy,  hail  I  around  thy  hallowed 

shrine,  [appear  1 

What  sylphid  bands,  what  radiant  forms 

Ah !  bless  thy  votary  with  thy  dreams  divine, 

Ah  1  wave  thy  wand,  and 

dear  I 


,  call  thy  visions 


Bear  me,  oh  1  bear  me,  to  thy  realms  un- 
known, 

Enchantress  1  waft  me  in  thy  car  sublime  I 
To  bendj  entranced,  before  thy  shadowy 

throne; 
To  view  the  wonders  of  thy  fairy  clime  I 

SONG. 

OH  I  bear  me  to  the  groves  of  palm. 
Where  perfumed  airs  diffuse  their  balm  ; 


And  when  the  noontide  beams  invade, 
Then  lay  me  in  the  embow'ring  shade ; 
Where  bananas  o'er  my  head, 
Mingling  with  the  tarn 'rind,  spread  ; 
Where  the  long  liannes  combining, 
Wild  festoons  of  flowers  entwining  ; 
Fragrant  cassia,  softly  blowing, 
Lime  and  orange,  ever  glowing ; 
All  their  spicy  breath  exhale, 
To  scent  the  pleasure-fanning  gale. 

There  her  sweet  ambrosial  stores. 
Nature  in  profusion  pours ; 
The  cocoa's  nectar  let  me  sip, 
The  citron's  juice  refresh  my  lip  ;, 
While  round  me  hovering  play 
Birds,  in  radiant  plumage  gay ; 
And  amidst  the  foliage,  raise 
Melodies,  in  varied  lays. 
There,  in  aromatic  bowers, 
Be  mine  to  pass  the  summer  hours ; 
Or  by  some  clear  cascade  reclined  ; 
Whose  dashing  sound  may  lull  the  mind 
Wake  the  lyre  and  tune  the  song, 
Scenes  of  paradise  among  I 

ADDRESS  TO  THOUGHT. 

OH  thou  I  the  musing,  wakeful  power, 
That  lov'st  the  silent,  midnight  hour, 
Thy  lonely  vigils  then  to  keep, 
And  banish  far  the  angel,  sleep, 

With  all  his  lovely  train  ; 
Come,  pensive  thought  1  with  thee  I'll  rove 
Through  forest  wild,  sequestered  grove. 

Or  twilight  plain. 

The  lone  recluse,  in  hermit-<«ll, 
With  thee,  oh,  nyrnph  !  delights  to  dwell 
Forsakes  the  world,  and  all  its  charms, 
Forsakes  the  syren  Pleasure's  arms, 

In  peaceful  shades  to  rest ; 
And  oft  with  thee,  entranced  may  hear, 
Celestial  voices  warbling  near, 

Of  spirits  blest. 

When  slow  declines  the  rosy  day, 
And  evening  smiles  with  parting  ray. 
When  twilight  spreads  her  magic  hues. 
When  moonbeams  tremble  on  the  dews, 

Be  mine  to  rove  retired ; 
By  fairy  bower,  or  dimpled  stream, 
To  muse  with  thee  some  heavenly  theme, 

Oh  1  maid  inspired. 

"Us  thine  on  eagle  wings  to  soar, 
Unknown,  cnfathomed  realms  explore ; 
Below  the  deeps,  above  the  sky, 
Beyond  the  starry  orbs  on  highs 
(Can  aught  restrain  thy  flight?) 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


To  pierce  the  veil  of  future  time, 
And  rise  in  Fancy's  car  sublime, 
To  realms  of  light. 

Ai  midnight,  to  the  guilty  breast, 
Thou  com'st,  a  feared,  appalling  guest , 
While  lightnings  flash  and  thunders  roll. 
Accusing  conscience  wakes  the  soul, 

And  bids  each  fear  increase  ; 
And,  while  benignant  slumber  flies, 
With  awful  voice,  in  whisper  cnes, 

Farewell  to  peace. 

But  oh,  dread  power,  how  sweet  thy  reign, 
To  Virtue's  mild  and  hallowed  train  J 
The  storm  around  may  wildly  rave, 
And  winter  swell  the  mountain  wave, 

Yet  soft  their  calm  repose ! 
Their  minds  unruffled  and  serene. 
And  guardian-seraphs  watch  unseen, 

Their  eyes  to  close. 


TO  MY  YOUNGER  BROTHER, 

ON  HIS   RETURN   FROM  SPAINj  AFTER 

TMK  FATAL  RETREAT  UNDER  SIR  JOHN   MOORE, 

AND  THE  BATTLE  OF  CORUNNA, 

THOUGH  dark  are  the  prospects  and  heavy 

the  hours, 
Though  life  is  a  desert,  and  cheerless  the 

way; 

Vet  still  shall  affection  adorn  it  with  flowers, 
Whose  fragrance  shall  never  decay. 

And  lo  !  to  embrace  thee,  my  brother !  she 

flies,  [bespeak ; 

With  artless  delight,  that  no  words  can 

With  a  sunbeam  of  transport  illuming  her 

eyes, 
With  a  smile  and  a  glow  on  her  cheek. 

From  the  trophies  of  war,  from  the  spear 

and  the  shield,  [unblest ; 

From  tbescenes  of  destruction,  from  perils 

Oh  I  welcome  again  to  the- grove  and  the 

field, 
To  the  vale  of  retirement  and  rest 

Then  warble,  sweet  muse !  with  the  lyre  and 
the  voice.  (strain ; 

Oh  !  gay  be  the  measure  and  sportive  the 
For  light  is  my  heart,  and  my  spirits  rejoice, 

To  meet  thee,  my  brother,  again. 

When  the  heroes  of  Albion,  still  valiant  and 
true,  [crowned ; 

Were  bleeding,  were  falling,  with  victory 
How  often  would  Fancy  present  to  my  VKV 

The  horrors  that  waited  thee  round. 


How  constant,  how  fervent,  how  pure  v,-as 

my  prayer,  [ger  and  harm  , 

That  Heaven  would  protect  thee  from  dan- 

That  angels  of  mercy  would  shield  thee  with 

care 
In  the  heat  of  the  combat's  alarm. 

How  sad  and  how  often  descended  the  tear, 

(Ah  I  long  shall  remembrance  the  image 

retain !)  [with  fear 

How  mournful  the  sigh,  when  I  trembled 
I  might  never  behold  thee  again. 

But  the  prayer  was  accepted,  the  sorrow  is 

o'er,  [the  rose ; 

And  the  tear-drop  is  fled,  like  the  dew  on 

Thy  dangers,  our  fears,  have  endeared  thee 

the  more, 
And  my  bosom  with  tenderness  glows. 

And,  oh  I  when  the  dreams,  the  enchant- 
ments  of  youth,  [rainbow,  away, 

Bright  and  transient,  have  fled,  like  the 
My  affection  for  thee,  still  unfading  in  truth, 

Shall  never,  oh !  never,  decay. 

No  time  can  impair  it,  no  change  can. de- 
stroy, [share ; 
Whate'er  be  the  lot  I  am  destined  to 
It  will  smile  in  the  sunshine  of  hope  and 

of  joy, 
And  beam  through  the  cloud  ol  despair  I 


TO  MY  MOTHER. 

IF  e'er  for  human  bliss  or  woe 

I  feel  the  sympathetic  glow  , 

If  e'er  my  heart  has  learned  to  know 

The  generous  wish  or  prayer : 
Who  sowed  the  germ,  with  tender  hand? 
Who  marked  its  infant  leaves  expand  ? 

My  mother's  fostering  care. 

And  if  one  flower  of  charms  refined 
May  grace  the  garden  of  my  mind ; 

Twas  she  who  nursed  it  there ; 
She  loved  to  cherish  and  adorn 

Each  blossom  of  the  soil ; 
To  banish  every  weed  and  thorn, 
That  oft  opposed  her  toil. 

And,  oh  I  if  e'er  I've  sighed  to  claim 
The  palm,  the  living  palm  of  fame, 

The  glowing  wreath  of  praise  ; 
If  e'er  I've  wished  the  glitt'ring  stores. 
That  fortune  on  her  favourite  pours  ; 
Twas  but  that  wealth  and  fame,  if  mine, 
Round  /^withstrearningraysmightshinf. 

And  gild  thy  sun-bright  days. 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


15 


tfet  not  that  splendour,  pomp,  and  power, 
Might  then  irradiate  ev'ry  hour ; 
For  these,  my  mother,  well  I  know, 
On  thee  no  raptures  could  bestow ; 
But  could  thy  bounty,  warm  and  kind, 
Be,  like  thy  wishes,  uncontined, 
And  fall,  as  manna  from  the  skies, 
And  bid  a  train  of  blessings  rise, 

Diffusing  joy  and  peace ; 
The  tear-drop,  grateful,  pure  and  bright, 
For  thee  would  beam  with  softer  light, 
Than  all  the  diamond's  crystal  rays, 
Than  all  the  emerald's  lucid  blaze  ; 
And  joys  of  heaven  would  thrill  thy  heart, 
To  bid  one  bosom-grief  depart, 

One  tear,  one  sorrow  cease  f 

Then,  oh  !  may  Heaven,  that  loves  to  bless, 
Bestow  the  power  to  cheer  distress  ; 
Make  thee  its  minister  below, 
To  light  the  cloudy  path  of  wo«  ; 
To  visit  the  deserted  cell, 
Where  indigence  is  doomed  to  dwell ; 
To  raise,  when  drooping  to  the  earth, 
The  blossoms  of  neglected  worth ; 
And  round,  with  liberal  hand,  dispense 
The  sunshine  of  beneficence. 

But  ah,  if  fate  should  still  deny 
Delights  like  these,  too  rich  and  high  ; 
If  grief  and  pain  thy  steps  assail, 
In  life's  remote  and  wintry  vale  ; 
Then,  as  the  wild  Eolian  lyre, 

Complains  with  soft,  entrancing  number, 
When  the  loud  storm  awakes  the  wire, 

And  bids  enchantment  cease  to  slumber  ; 
So  filial  love,  with  soothing  voice, 
E'en  then  shall  teach  thee  to  rejoice : 
E'en  then,  shall  sweeter,  milder  sound, 
When  sorrow's  tempest  raves  around  ; 
While  dark  misfortune's  gales  destroy 
The  frail  mimosa-buds  of  hope  and  joy  I 


WAR  SONG  OF  TffE  SPANISH 
PATRIOTS. 

YE  who  burn  with  glory's  flame, 
Ye  who  love  the  Patriot's  fame ; 
Ye  who  scom  oppressive  might, 
Rise,  in  freedom's  cause  unite ; 

Castilians  rise. 

Hark !  Iberia  calls,  ye  brave, 
Haste  I  your  bleeding  country  save  i  . 
Be  the  palm  of  bright  renown, 
Be  th'  unfading  laurel-crown, 

The  hero's  prize. 
High  the  crimson  banner  wave, 
Ours  be  conquest  or  the  grave  • 


Spirits  of  our  noble  sires, 

Lo !  your  sons  with  kindred  fires, 

Unconquered  glow. 
See  them  once  again  advance, 
Crush  the  pride  of  hostile  France ;  • 
See  their  hearts,  with. ardour  warn), 
See  them,  with  triumphant  arm, 

Repel  the  foe. 

By  the  Cid's  immortal  name, 
By  Gonsalvo's  deathless  fame, 
By  the  chiefs  of  former  time, 
By  the  valiant  deeds  sublime 

Of  ancient  days ; 
Brave  Castilians,  grasp  the  spear. 
Gallant  Andalusians,  bear ; 
Glory  calls  you  to  the  plain, 
Future  bards,  in  lofty  strain, 

Shall  sing  your  praise. 

Shades  of  mighty  warriors  dead, 
Ye  who  nobly  fought  and  bled ; 
Ye  whose  valour  could  withstand 
The  savage  Moor's  invading  band. 

Untaught  to  yield  ; 
Bade  victorious  Charlemagne 
Own  the  patriot-arms  of  Spain  ; 
Ye,  in  later  times  renowned, 
Ye  who  fell  with  laurels  crowned. 

On  Pavia's  field. 

Teach  our  hearts  like  yours  to  burn  ; 
Lawless  power  like  you  to  spurn ; 
Teach  us  but  like  you  to  wield 
Freedom's  lance  and  Freedom's  shield, 

With  daring  might : 
Tyrant  1  soon  thy  reign  is  o'er, 
Thou  shalt  waste  mankind  no  more ; 
Boast  no  more  thy  thousands  slain, 
Jena's  or  Marengo's  plain ; 
Ix> !  the  sun  that  gilds  thy  day, 
Soon  will  veil  its,  parting  ray, 

In  endless  night 


SEA   PIECE. 

SUBLIME  is  thy  prospect,  thou  proud  roll- 
ing Ocean,  [light ; 
And  Fancy  surveys  thee  with  solemn  de- 
When  thy  mountainous  billows  are  wild  in 

commotion, 

And  the  tempest  is  roused  by  the  spirits 
.of  night 

When  the   moonbeams    through  winter- 
clouds  faintly  appearing, 
At  intervals  gleam  on  the  dark-swelling 
wave ; 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


And  the  mariner,  dubious,  now   hoping, 

now  feanng. 

May  hear  the  stern  Genius  of  hurricanes 
rave. 

But  now,  when  thine  anger  has  long  been 

subsiding,  [its  wing ; 

And  the  tempest  has  folded  the  might  of 

How  clear  is    thy  surface,   in  loveliness 

gliding. 
For  April  has  opened  the  portah  of  spring. 

Now  soft  on  thy  bosom  the  orient  is  beam- 
ing, [breast , 
And  tremulous  breezes  are  waving  thy 
On  thy  mirror  the  clouds  and  the  shadows 

are  streaming. 

And  morning  and  glory  the  picture  !>avc 
drest. 

No  gale  but  the  balmy  Favonian  is  blowing, 

In  coral  caves  resting,  the  winds  are 

asleep ;  [are  glowing, 

.And,  rich  in  the  sunbeam,  yon  pendants 

That  tinge  with  their  colours  the  silvery 

deep. 

Yet  smile  or  be  dreadful,  thon  still-changing 

Ocean, 

Tremendous  or  lovely,  resistless  or  still ; 
I  view  thee  adoring, with  hallowed  emotion, 
The*Power  that  can  hush  or  arouse  thee 
at  will 


TO  RESIGNATION. 

M  AID  of  the  placid  smile  and  heavenly  mien, 
With  beaming  eye,  though  tearful,  yet  serene; 
Teach  me,  like  thee,  in  sorrow's  lingering 

hour, 

To  bless  devotion's  aTl-consoling  power ; 
Teach  me.  like  thee,  when  storms  around 

me  nse,  [skies, 

And  spreading  glooms  obscnre  the  azure 
On  one  unclouded  light  to  fix  my  view, 
For  ever  brilliant  and  for  ever  true ; 
The  star  of  faith  I  whose  mild,  celestial  ray 
With  steady  histre  shall  direct  my  way  • 
Thy  seraph-hand  shall  raise  my  drooping 

head.  fspread ; 

Angel  of  peace  !  thy  wings  around  me 
With  hallowed  spells  my  faintingspmt  cheer 
Hush  the  sad  murmur,  dry  the  starting  tear. 
Thus  when  the  halcyon  broods  upon  the 

tides,  [subsides . 

The  winds  are  lulled,  the  mountain-wave 
Soft  rainbow  hues,  reflected,  tinge  the  deep, 
/And  balmy  zephyrs  on  its  bosom  sleep- 


Maid  of  the  placid  smile  I  my  troubled  soul, 
Would  own  thy  gentle  reign,  thy  mild  con- 
trol ;  [brow, 
Though  the  pale  cypress  twine  thy  sainted 
Eternal  palms  for  thee  in  heaven  shall  blow. 


LINES 

WRITTKN   IN   THE   MEMOIRS   OF   SLIZABRTH 
SM1IH 

OH  thou,  whose  pure,  exalted  mind 

Lives  in  this  record,  fair  and  bright . 
Oh  thou.  whose  blameless  life  combined 
Soft  female  charms  and  grace  refined 
With  science  and  with  light. 

Celestial  maid  I  whose  spirit  soared 
Beyond  this  vale  of  tears  ; 

Whose  clear,  enlightened  eye  explored 

The  lore  of  years  I 
Daughter  of  heaven  I  if  here,  e'en  here, 

The  wing  of  towering  thought  was  thine ; 
If,  on  this  dim  and  mundane  sphere. 

Fair  truth  illumed  thy  bright  career 

With  morning  star  divine  ; 
How  must  thy  blest,  ethereal  soul, 

Now  kindle  in  her  noon-tide  ray  \ 
And  hail,  unfettered  bycontiol, 

The  fount  of  day. 
E'en  now,  perhaps,  thy  seraph-eyes. 

Undimmed  by  doubt,  nor  veiled  by  fear 
Behold  a  chain  of  wonders  rise. 
Gaze  on  the  noonbeam  of  the  skies, 

Transcendent,  pure,  and  clear 
E'en  now  the  fair,  the  good,  the  true, 

From  mortal  sight  concealed, 
Bless  in  one  blaze  thy  raptured  view, 

In  light  revealed ! 
If  kere,  the  lore  of  distant  time, 

And  learning's  flowers  were  all  thine  own  J 
How  must  thy  mind  ascend,  sublime, 
Matured  in  heaven's  empyreal  clime, 
To  light's  unclouded  throne 
Perhaps,  e  en  now,  thy  kindling  glance 

Each  orb  of  living  fire  explores  , 
Darts  o  er  creation  s  wide  expanse, 

Admires — adores. 
Oh  !  tf  that  lightning-eye  surveys 

This  dark  and  sublunary  plain  ; 
How  must  the  wreath  of  human  praise. 
Fade,  wither,  vanish,  in  thy  gaze, 
So  dim,  so  pale,  so  vain. 
How  like  a  faint  and  shadowy  dream, 

Must  quiver  learning's  brightest  ray  ; 
While  on  thy  eyes,  with  lucid  stream. 
The  sun  of  glory  pours  his  beam. 
Porfection's  d?y 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


17 


THE  SILVER  LOCKS. 

TO  JOHN  FOULKES,   ESQ.— l8TH  AUGUST,  l8oO 

THOUGH  youth  may  boast  the  curls  thau 

flow, 

In  sunny  waves  of  auburn  glow  ; 
As  graceful  on  thy  hoary  head, 
Has  time  the  robe  of  honour  spread, 
And  there,  oh  !  softly,  softly,  stiad, 
His  wreath  of  snow. 

As  frost-work  on  the  trees  displayed, 
When  weeping  Flora  leaves  the  shade,- 
E'en  more  than  Flora,  charms  the  sight ; 
E'en  so  thy  locks,  of  purest  white, 
Survive,  in  age's  frost-work  bright. 
Youth's  vernal  rose  decayed. 

To  grace  the  nymph,  whose  tresses  phy 
Light  on  the  sportive  breeze  of  May, 
Let  other  bards  the  garland  twine, 
Where  sweets  of  every  hue  combine  ; 
Those  locks  revered,  that  silvery  shine, 
Invite  my  lay. 

'Less  white  the  summer-cloud  sublime, 
Less  white  the  winter's  fringing  rime  ; 
Nor  do  Belinda's  lovelier  seem, 
(A  poet's  blest,  immortal  theme,) 
Than  thine,  which  wear   the  moonlight 
beam, 
Of  reverend  time  I 

Long  may  the  graceful  honours  smile, 
Like  moss  on  some  declining  pile  ; 
Oh,  much  revered  I  may  filial  care, 
Around  thee,  duteous,  long  repair, 
Thy  joys  with  tender  bliss  to  share, 
Thy  pains  beguile  I 

Long,  long,  ye  snowy  ringlets,  wave, 
Long,  long,  your  much-loved  beauty  save  i 
May  bliss  your  latest  evening  crown, 
Disarm  life's  winter  of  its  frown, 
And  soft,  ye  hoary  hairs,  go  down,  • 
In  gladness  to  the  grave. 

And  as  the  parting  beams  of  day. 
On  mountain-snows  reflected  play ; 
And  tints  of  roseate  lustre  shed  ; 
Thus,  on  the  snow  that  crowns  thy  head, 
May  joy,  with  evening  planet,  shed 
His  mildest  ray  I 


THE    BARDS. 

fO  THB  SOLDIBES  OF  CAKACTACU* 

VALIANT  sons  of  freedom's  land, 
Ardent,  firm,  devoted  band, 
Rise,  at  honour's  thrilling  caU 


Warriors,  arm  !  shall  Britain  fall? 
Rush,  battle-steed, 
Bleed,  soldiers,  bleed  1 
For  Britain's  throne,  for  glory's  meed. 

Heroes  1  to  the  combat  fly, 
Proud  to  struggle,  blest  to  die  ; 
Go  I  should  death  your  efforts  crown. 
Mount  the  pinions  of  renown  ; 

Go  !  tell  our  sires, 

Their  daring  fires, 
Glow  in  our  lofty  souls,  till  life  expires. 

Tell  them,  ne'er  shall  Britain  yield 
Whilst  a  h?nd  the  sword  can  wield 
Tell  them,  we  the  strife  maintain, 
Tell  them,  we  defy  the  chain  I 

In  heart  the  same, 

In  patriot-flame 
We  emulate  their  brightest  fame. 

Shades  of  sainted  chiefs  !  be  near, 
Smile  on  Albion's  lifted  spear, 
Point  the  falchion,  guide  the  car. 
Flaming  through  the  ranks  of  war, 

Rise  on  the  field, 

With  sword  and  shield, 
To  British  eyes  in  forms  of  light  revealed' 

Spark  of  freedom,  blaze  on  high, 
Wilt  thou  quiver?  shall  thou  die  ? 
Never,  never,  holy  fire  ! 
Mount,  irradiate  !  beam,  aspire  I 
Our  foes  consume, 
Our  swords  illume, 
And  chase  the  dark  horizon's  gloora. 

Shall  the  Roman  arms  invade 
Mona's  dark  and  hallowed  shade  ? 
By  the  dread,  mysterious  wand, 
Waving  in  the  Druid's  hand ; 

By  every  rite, 

Of  Mona's  night, 
Arm,  warriors  I  arm  ;  in  sacred  cause  unite 

Honour  !  while  thy  bands  disdain 
Slavery's  dark,  debasing  chain ; 
Britain  1  while  thy  sons  are  free, 
Dauntless,  faithful,  firm  for  thee, 
Mona  I  while  at  thy  command, 
Ardent  bold,  sublime,  they  stand  ; 
Proud  foes  in  vain, 
Prepare  the  chain, 
For  Albion  unsubdued  shall  reign. 

Lo  I  we  see  a  flame  divine 
Blaze  o'er  Mona's  awful  shrine  I 
Lo !  we  bear  a  voice  proclaim 
"  Albion,  thine,  immortal  fame  ;" 

Arise,  ye  brave, 

To  bleed,  to  save,  [  wave. 

Though  proud  in  pomp,  yon  Roman  eagles 


(8 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


Caesai,  come  I  in  tenfold  mail, 
Will  thine  arms  like  ours  avail  ? 
Caesar  !  let  thy  falchions  blaze. 
Will  they  dim  fair  Freedom's  rays  f 
Caesar  !  boast  thy  wide  control, 
Canst  thou  chain  th'  aspiring  soul  ? 

What  steel  can  bind. 

The  sparing  mind. 
Free  as  the  light,  the  wave,  the  wind  i 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  SUN 

WHILE  bending  o  er  my  golden  lyre, 

While  waving  light  my  wing  of  foe  , 

Creation's  regions  to  explore, 

To  gaze,  to  wonder,  to  adore 

While  faithful  to  th'  external  will, 

My  task  of  glory  I  fulfil , 

To  rule  the  comet's  dread  career, 

To  guide  the  planets  on  their  sphere  . 

While  from  this  pure  empyreal  sky, 

I  dart  my  truth-enlightened  eye  I 

What  mists  involve  yon  changeful  scene, 

How  dark  thy  views,  thou  orb  terrene  I 

E'en  now  compassion  clouds  awhile 

Bright  ecstacy's  immortal  smile  : 

I  see  the  flames  of  war  consume 

Fair  scenes  that  sm:l<.u  in  glowing  blown 

0  er  ev'ry  nation,  ev'ry  land, 

1  see  destruction  wave  his  hand  ; 
How  dark  thy  billows,  ocean-flood  ; 
Lo,  man  has  dyed  thy  waves  in  blood  I 
Nature,  how  'changed  thy  vivid  grace  i 
Vengeance  and  war  thy  charms  deface 
Oh,  scene  of  doubt,  of  care,  of  anguish  , 
Oh,  scene,  where  virtue's  doomed  to  lan- 
guish ; 

Oh,  scene,  where  death  triumphant  rides, 
The  spear,  the  sword,  the  javelin  guides  ! 
And  canst  thou  be  that  earth,  declare, 
That  earth  so  pure,  so  good,  so  fair, 
O'er  which,  a  new-created  globe, 
Thy  Father  spread  perfection's  robe  ? 

Oh,  Heaven  how  changed,  how  pale,  bow 

dim  1 

Since  first  arose  the  choral  hymn, 
That  hailed,  at  thy  auspicious  birth, 
A  dawning  paradise  on  earth  ; 
On  that  sublime,  creative  morn, 
That  saw  the  infant-planet  born, 
How  swelled  the  harp,  the  lyre,  the  voice, 
To  bless,  to  triumph,  to  rejoice. 
How  kneeling  rapture  led  the  song, 
How  glowed  the  exulting  cherub  throng, 
When  the  fair  orb,  arising  bright, 
Sprang  into  glory,  life  and  light, 


Oh,  Heaven,  how  changed  a  thorny  waste. 

With  shadows  dimmed,  with  cloudso'ercast, 

See  passions  desolate  the  ball. 

See  kingdoms,  thrones,  and  empires  fall  I 

See  mad  Ambition  s  whirlwinds  sweep, 

Resistless  as  the  wintry  deep  . 

See,  waving  through  the  troubled  sky, 

His  crimson  banner  glare  on  high 

Blush,  Anger,  blush,  and  hide  thy  sword  , 

Weep,  Conquest,  weep  I  imperious  lord  I 

And  mourn,  to  view  thy  sullied  name 

Inscribed  in  blood — emblazed  in  flame  I 

And  are  those  cnes,  which  rend  the  air, 

Of  death,  of  torture,  of  despair, 

Hymns  that  should  mount  on  wings  above, 

To  him,  the  GOD  OF  PEACE  AND  LOVE  ' 

And  is  yon  flame  of  ruthless  war, 

That  spreads  destruction's  reign  afar, 

The  incense  taught  by  man  to  blaze, 

For  him  who  dwells  in  mercy's  rays  ? 

Mortals  !  if  angels  grief  might  know, 

From  angels  if  a  tear  might  flow, 

For  you  celestial  woes  might  rise, 

And  pity  dim  a  seraph's  eyes  ; 

Yet,' mortals  !  oft,  through  mists  and  tears 

Your  bright  original  appears, 

Gleams  through  the  veil  with  radiant  smile 

A  sunbeam  on  a  ruined  pile  I 

Exulting,  oft  the  forms  1  trace, 

Of  moral  grandeur,  beauty,  grace  ; 

That  speak  your  powers  for  glory  given. 

That  still  reveal  the  heir  of  heav'n  I 

Not  yet  extinct  your  heavenly  fire, 

For  cherubs  oft  its  beams  admire  I 

I  see  fair  virtue  nobly  rise, 
Child,  favourite,  darling,  of  the  skies  ; 
Smile  on  the  pangs  that  round  her  wait, 
And  brave,  and  bear  the  storms  of  fate. 
I  see  her  lift  th1  adoring  eye, 
Forbid  the  tear,  suppress  the  sigh  ; 
Still  on  her  high  career  proceeding, 
Sublime  I      august  i — though    suffering— 
bleeding ;  ("rude, 

The  thoin,  though  sl^arp— the  blast,  thougb 
Shake  not  her  lofty  fortitude  i 

Oh,  graceful  dignity  serene, 
Faith,  glory,  triumph  on  thy  mien  ! 
Still,  virtue  !  still  the  strife  maintain, 
The  smile,  the  frown  of  fate,  disdain  ; 
Think  on  that  hour,  when  freed  from  clay, 
Thy  soul  shall  rise  to  life  and  day  ; 
Still  mount  to  heaven  on  sorrow's  car ; 
There  shine  a  fixed  unclouded  star, 
Like  me  to  range,  like  me  to  soar, 
Suns,  planets,  worlds  of  light  explore ; 
Then  angel-forms  around  shall  throng. 
And  greet  tbee  in  triumphal  song  ; 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


19 


"  Mount,  spirit,  mount!  thy  woes  are  o'er; 
Pains,  sickness ,  trials,  now  no  more  ; 
Hail,  sister,  hail  I  thy  task  is  done, 
Rise,  cherub,  rise  ! — thy  crown  is  wou." 

Oh,  favoured  mortals  ;  best  beloved, 
Ye  in  stern  perils  fiercely  proved  ; 
When  faith  and  truth,  with  pure  control, 
Refine,  inspire,  exalt  your  soul ; 
When  firm  in  brightest,  noblest  aims, 
Your  bosoms  glow  with  hallowed  flames  ; 
When  still  the  narrow  path  you  tread, 
Nor  scorn,  nor  grief,  nor  dangers  dread  : 
Though  fate  with  every  dart  assail, 
To  pierce  your  heart's  heaven  tempered  mail; 
Nor  shrink,  though  death  his  javelin  hurled, 
Scorned  yet  untainted  by  the  world  ; 
Then  think,  ye  brave,  ye  constant  few, 
To  faith,  to  hope,  to  virtue  true, 
Then  think,  that  seraphs  from  above, 
Behold  your  deeds,  admire,  and"  love  : 
And  those  who  Heaven's  commands  per- 
form, 

Who  still  the  wave,  who  ride  the  storm  ; 
Who  point  the  lightning's  fiery  wing, 
Or  shed  the  genial  dews  of  spring ; 
Who  fill  with  balm  the  zephyr's  breath, 
Or  taint  th'  avenging  winds  with  death  ; 
That  those  who  guide  the  planet's  course, 
Who  bend  at  light's  transcendent  source ; 
Oh,  think  that  those  your  toil  survey, 
Your  struggling  mind,  your  rugged  way  I 
Oh,  think  that  those,  e'en  now  prepare 
A  bower  of  bliss,  for  you  to  share  ; 
E'en  now,  th  immortal  wreath  entwine, 
Around  your  sainted  brows  to  shine  ; 
E'en  now,  their  golden  harps  attune, 
To  greet  you  in  the  blaze  of  noon  ! 
Soon  shall  your  captive  souls  be  free, 
To  bless,  to  hymn,  to  soar,  like  me  I 
The  fair,  the  perfect,  and  the  bright, 
Shall  beam  unclouded  on  your  sight ; 
Soon  shall  the  silver  lutes  be  strung, 
Soon  shall  the  poean  lays  be  sung ; 
Hail,  sister,  hail !  thy  task  is  done  : 
Rise,  cherub,  rise  1  thy  palm  is  won  I 


TO    MR.     EDWARDS, 

THB   HARPER  OF  CONWAY. 

MINSTREL  !  whose  gifted  hand  can  bring, 
Life,  rapture,  soul,  from  every  string  ; 
And  wake,  like  bards  of  former  time, 
The  spirit  of  the  harp  sublime  ; — 
Oh  1  still  prolong  the  varying  strain  ! 
Obi  touch  th'  enchanted  chords  again  1 


Thine  is  the  charm,  suspending  care, 
The  heavenly  swell,  the  dying  close, 
The  cadence  melting  into  air, 
That  lulls  each  passion  to  repose. 
While  transport,  lost  in  silence  near, 
Breathes  all  her  language  in  a  tear. 

Exult,  O  Cambria  I — now  no  more 
With  sighs  thy  slaughtered  bards  deplore 
What  though  Plinlimmon's  misty  brow, 
And  Mona's  woods'  be  silent  now, 
Yet  can  thy  Conway  boast  a  strain 
Unrivalled  ir»  thy  proudest  reign. 

For  Genius,  with  divine  control, 
Wakes  the  bold  chord  neglected  long, 
And  pours  Expression's  glowing  soul 
O'er  the  wild  Harp,  renowned  in  song. 
And  Inspiration,  hovering  round, 
Swells  the  full  energies  of  sound. 

Now  Grandeur,  pealing  in  the  tone, 
Could  rouse  the  warrior's  kindling  fire, 
And  now,  'tis  like  the  breeze's  moan, 
That  murmurs  o'er  th'  ^Eolian  lyre  : 
As  if  some  sylph,  with  viewless  wing, 
Were  sighing  o'er  the  magic  string. 

Long,  long,  fair  Conway  !  boast  the  skill, 
That  soothes,  inspires,  commands,  at  will! 
And  oh  I  while  rapture  hails  the  lay, 
Far  distant  be  the  closing  day, 
When  Genius,  Taste,  again  shall  weep, 
And  Cambria's  Harp  lie  hushed  in  sleep  i 


THE  RUIN  AND  ITS  FLOWERS. 

SWEETS  of   the  wild  I    that  breathe  and 

bloom 

On  this  lone  tower,  this  ivied  wall ; 
Lend  to  the  gale  a  rich  perfume, 
And  grace  the  ruin  in  its  fall ; 
Though  doomed,  remote  from  careless  eye, 
To  smile,  to  flourish,  and  to  die 

In  solitude  sublime, 
Oh  I  ever  may  the  Spring  renew, 
Your  balmy  scent  and  glowing  hue, 
To  deck  the  robe  of  time  1 

Breathe,  fragrance  1  breathe,  enrich  the  air, 

Though  wasted  on  its  wing  unknown ! 
Blow,  flow'rets  !  blow,  though  vainly  fair, 

Neglected,  and  alone  1 
These  towers  that  long  withstood  the  blast 
These  mossy  towers,  are  mouldering  fast, 

While  Flora's  children  stay ; 
To  mantle  o'er  the  lonely  pile, 
To  gild  destruction  with  a  smile, 
,  And  beautify  decay  I 


20 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


Sweets  of  the  wild  I  uncultured  blowing 
Neglected  in  luxuriance  glowing  . 
From  the  dark  ruins  frowning  near. 
Your  charms  m  brighter  tints  appear. 

And  richer  blush  assume 
You  smile  with  softer  beauty  crowned, 
Whilst  all  is  desolate  around, 

Like  sunshine  on  a  tomb  t 

Thou  hoary  pile  I  majestic  still, 

Memento  of  departed  fame  I 
While  roving  o'er  the  moss-clad  hill. 

I  ponder  on  thine  ancient  name  < 

Here  grandeur,  beauty,  valour  sleep, 
That  here,  so  oft  have  shone  supreme 

While  glory,  honour,  fancy  weep, 
That  vanished  is  the  golden  dream  i 

Where  are  the  banners,  waving  proud. 

To  kiss  the  summer-gale  of  even  ? 
All  purple  as  the  morning-cloud, 

All  streaming  to  the  winds  of  heaven  i 

Where  is  the  harp,  by  rapture  strung, 
To  melting  song,  or  martial  story? 

Where  are  the  lays  the  minstrel  sung, 
To  loveliness,  or  glory ) 

Lorn  echo  of  these  mouldering  walls, 
To  thee  no  festal  measure  calk ; 
No  music  through  the  desert-halls. 

Awakes  thee  to  rejoice  I 
How  still  thy  sleep  !  as  death  profound, 
As  if,  within  this  lonely  round, 
A  step — a  note — a  whispered  sound 

Had  ne  er  aroused  thy  voice  I 

Thou  hear'st  the  zephyr  murmuring,  dying, 
Thou  hear'st  the  foliage,  waving,  sighing  ; 
But  ne  er  again  shall  harp  or  song, 
These  dark,  deserted  courts  along, 

Disturb  thy  calm  repose  ; 
The  harp  is  broke,  the  song  is  fled 
The  voice  is  hushed,  the  bard  is  dead 
And  never  shall  thy  tones  repeat, 
Or  lofty  strain,  or  carol  sweet 

With  plaintive  close  i 

Proud  castle  I  though  th«  days  are  flown, 
When  once  thy  towers  in  glory  shone 
When  music  through  thy  turrets  rung, 
When  banners  o  er  thy  ramparts  hung, 
Though  midst  thine  arches,  frowning  lone, 
Stern  desolation  rear  his  throne 
And  silence,  deep  and  awful,  reign 
Where  echoed  once  the  choral  strain 
Yet  oft,  dark  ruin  I  lingering  here, 
1  be  cause  will  hail  thee  with  A  tear 


Here  when  the  moonlight,  quivering,  beams, 
And  through  the  fringing  ivy  streams, 
And  softens  every  shade  sublime, . 
And  mellows  every  tint  of  time — 
Oh  !  here  shall  contemplation  love, 
Unseen  and  undisturbed,  to  rove  ; 
And  bending  o  er  some  mossy  tomb, 
Where  valour  sleeps  or  beauty's  bloom. 
Shall  weep  for  glory's  transient  day, 
And  grandeur  s  evanescent  ray  I 
And  listening  to  the  swelling  blast, 
Shall  wake  the  spirit  ofthe  past— 
Call  up  the  forms  of  ages  fled. 
Of  warriors  and  of  minstrels  dead ; 
Who  sought  the  field,  who  struck  the  lyre, 
With  all  ambition's  kindling  fire  I 

Nor  wilt  thou,  Spring  l  refuse  to  breathe, 
Soft  odours  on  this  desert-air ; 

Refuse  to  twine  thine  earliest  wreath, 
And  fringe  these  towers  with  garlands  fait  I 

Sweets  of  the  wild,  oh  I  ever  bloom 

Unheeded  on  this  ivied  wall  I 
Lend  to  the  gale  a  rich  perfume, 

And  grace  the  ruin  in  its  fall  I 

Thus  round  Misfortune's  holy  head* 
Would  Pity  wreaths  of  honour  spread  ; 
Like  you,  thus  blooming  on  this  lonely  pile, 
She  seeks  despair,  with  heart-reviving  smilel 


CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 

FAIR  Gratitude  I  in  strain  sublime, 
Swell  high  to  heaven  thy  tuneful  zeal ; 

And,  hailing  this  auspicious  time, 
Kneel,  Adoration  I  kneel  I 

CHORUS. 

For  lo  I  the  day,  th  immortal  day, 
When  Mercy's  full,  benignant  ray, 
Chased  every  gathering  cloud  away, 

And  poured  the  noon  of  light ! 
Rapture  I  be  kindling,  mounting,  glowing 
While  from  thine  eye  the  tear  is  flowing, 

Pure,  warm,  and  bright  I 

'Twas  on  this  day.  oh,  love  divine  I 
The  orient  star  s  effulgence  rose  ; 

Then  waked  the  moon,  whose  eye  benign, 
Shall  never,  never  close  I  •••' 


Messiah  I  be  thy  Name  adored, 
Eternal,  high,  redeeming  Ixird 
Bv  ffratpful  wwrids  be  antb'.ms 


Emanuel !  Prince  of  Peace  I 
This  day,  from  Heaven's  empyreal  dwelling, 
Harp,  lyre,  and  voice,  in  concert  swelling, 

Bade  discord  cease  1 

Wake  the  loud  paean,  tune  the  voice, 
Children  of  Heaven  and  sons  of  earth  ! 

Seraphs  and  men  !  exult,  rejoice, 
To  bless  the  Saviour's  birth  1 


CHORUS 

Devotion !  light  thy  purest  fire  I 
Transport !  on  cherub-wing  aspire  ! 
Praise  I  wake  to  him  thy  golden  lyre. 

Strike  every  thrilling  chord  ! 
While,  at  the  ark  of  mercy  kneeling, 
We  own  thy  grace,  reviving,  healing, 

Redeemer  1  Lord  1 


SONNETS. 


TO  A  DYING  EXOTIC. 
AH  !  lovely  faded  plant,  the  blight  I  mourn 
That  withered  all  thy  blossoms  fair  and 

gay;  . 

I  saw  thee  blushing  to  the  genial  May, 
And  now  thy  leaves  are  drooping  and  forlorn. 
I  marked  thy  early  beauty  with  a  smile, 
And  saw  with  pride  the  crimson  buds 

expand ; 

They  opened  to  the  sunbeam  for  awhile, 
By  all  the  flattering  gales  of  summer 

fanned. 

Ah  I  faded  plant,  I  raise  thy  languid  head, 
And  moisten  every  leaf  with  balmy  dew  ; 
But  now  thy  rich  luxuriant  bloom  is  fled, 

Thy  foliage  wears  a  pale  autumnal  hue  ; 
Too  soon  thy  glowing  colours  havedecayed  ! 
Like  thee  the  flowers  of  pleasure  smile  and 
fade. 

TO  THE  MUSE  OF  PITY. 
OH  !  mistress  af  the  melancholy  song, 

I  love  to  bend  before  thy  sacred  shrine ; 
To  thee  my  fondest  early  vows  belong, 

For  pity's  melting  tenderness  is  thine. 
Thine  is  the  harp  of  wild  expressive  tone, 

'Tis  thine  to  touch  it  with  entrancing  art ; 

Till  all  thy  numbers  vibrate  on  the  heart, 
And  sympathy  delights  thy  power  to  own. 
Oh !  sweetest  muse  of  pity  and  of  love, 

In  artless  song  thy  plaintive  lyre  I  hail ; 

Be  mine  to  weep  with  thee  o'er  sorrow's 

tale, 

And  oft  thy  pleasing  visions  may  I  prove. 
"Thou  mistress  of  the  melancholy  song, 
To  thee  my  fondest  early  vows  belong." 

SONNET. 
AH  1  now  farewell  thou  sweet  and  gentle 

maid, 

Beside  thy  simple  grave  we  oft  shall 
mourn; 


And  plant  a  willow  where  thy  form  is  laid, 

And  then  with  flowers  the  weeping  tree 

adorn. 
Oft  shall  we  sing  thy  melancholy  tale, 

When  all  the  shades  of  evening  steal 

around ; 
And  oft  assemble  by  the  moonlight  pale, 

To  linger  near  the  consecrated  ground. 
And  oh  I  if  spirits  e'er  on  earth  descend, 

To  hover  o'er  some  chosen  hallowed  spot , 
Around  thy  tomb  shall  airy  bands  attend, 

And  humble  villagers  shall  weep  thy  lot. 
Ah  !  fair  departed  maid,  thy  placid  mind 
Was  calm  in  sorrow,  and  to  Heaven  re- 
signed. 


TO  MY  MOTHER. 

To  thee,  maternal  guardian  of  my  youth, 
I  pour  the  genuine  numbers,  free  from 

art; 

The  lays  inspired  by  gratitude  and  truth, 
For  thou  wilt  prize  th'  effusion  of  the 

heart. 

Oh  !  be  it  mine,  with  sweet  and  pious  care, 

To  calm  thy  bosom  in  the  hour  of  grief ; 

With  soothing  tenderness  to  chase  the  tear, 

With  fond  endearments  to  impart  relief. 

Be  mine  thy  warm  affection  to  repay 

With  duteous  love  in  thy  declining  hours ; 

My  filial    hand   shall   strew   unfading 

flowers, 

Perennial  roses  to  adorn  thy  way : 
Still  may  thy  grateful  children  round  thee 

smile, 
Their  pleasing  care  affliction  shall  beguile. 


SONNET. 

Tis  sweet  to  think  the  spirits  of  the  blest 
May  hover  round  the  virtuous    man's 

repose ; 
Arid  oft  in  visions  animate  his  breast. 


22 


ENGLAND  AND  SPAIN. 


And  scenes  of  bright  beatitude  disclose. 
The  ministers  of  Heaven  with  pure  control, 

May  bid  his  sorrow  and  emotion  cease  ; 
Inspire  the  pious  fervour  of  his  soul, 

And  whisper  to  his  bosom  hallowed  peace. 

Ah !  tender  thought,  that  oft  with  sweet 

relief.  [fnend  ; 

May  charm   the   bosom   of   a   weeping 
Beguile  with  magic  power  the  tear  of  grief, 

And  pensivepleasurewith  devotion  blend ; 
While  oft  he  fancies  music  sweetly  faint. 
The  airy  lay  of  some  departed  saint. 

TO  AGNES. 

AH  1  could  my  Agnes  rove  these  favourite 
shades,  [brian  vale, 

With  mirth  and  friendship  in  the  Cam- 
In  mossy  dells,  or  wild  romantic  glades, 
Where    flowers    uncultured    scent    the 

sportive  gale ; 

And  could  she  wander  at  the  morning  hour, 
To  hail  with  me  the  blest  return  of  May  ; 
Or  linger  sweetly  in  the  woodbine  bower. 
When  early  dews   begem  the  weeping 

spray. 
Ah  !  soon  her  cheek  the  lovely  mantling 

bloom 
Of  sprightly  youth  and  pleasure  would 

disclose, 
Her  lip  the  smile  of  Hebe  would  resume, 

And  wear  the  blushes  of  the  vernal  rose ; 
And  soon  would  cherub  health  with  lively 

grace, 
Beam  in  her  eye  and  animate  her  face. 

SONNET. 

(  LOVE  to  hail  the  mild,  the  balmy  hour, 
When  evening  spreads  around  her  twi- 
light veil . 


When  dews  descend  on  every  languid  flower, 

And  sweet  and  tranquil  is  the  summer 

gale. 
Then  let  me  wander  by  the  peaceful  tide. 

While  o  er  the  wave  the  breezes  lightly 

play. 
To  hear  the  waters  murmur  as  they  glide, 

To  mark  the  fading  smile  of  closing  day. 
There  let  me  linger,  blest  in  visions  dear. 

Till  the  soft  moonbeams  tremble  on  the 

seas , 
While  melting  sounds  decay  on  fancy  s  ear. 

Of  airy  music  floating  on  the  breeze. 
For  still  when  eveningsheds  thegemaldews. 
That  pensive  hour  is  sacred  to  the  muse. 


SONNET. 

WHERE  nature's  grand  romantic  charms 

invite 

The  glowing  rapture  of  the  soul  refined  ; 
In  scenes  like  these  the  young  poetio 

mind 

May  court  the-  dreams  of  fancy  with  de- 
light . 

And  dear  to  those  by  every  muse  inspired, 
The  rural  landscape  and  the  prospect 

fair , 

They  love,  in  mountain  solitudes  retired. 
To  own  illusions  that  may  banish  care. 
These  gentle  visions  ever  shall  remain, 
To  soothe  the  poet  in  his  pensive  hours  ; 
For  him  shall  Fancy  cull  Pierian  flowers, 
And  strew  her  garlands  o'er  the  path  of 

pain , 
For  him  shall  Memory  shed  her  pensive 

ray. 

O'er  the  soft  hours  of  life's   enchanting 
May. 


ENGLAND     AND     SPAIN; 

OR, 

VALOUR  AND  PATRIOTISM. 

"  His  sword  the  brave  man  draws, 
And  aslcs  no  omen  but  his  country's  cause." — POPE 


TOO  long  have  Tyranny  and  Power  com- 
bined 

To  sway,  with  iron  sceptre,  o'er  mankind  ; 

Long  has  Oppression  worn  th'  imperial 
robe.  [globe  1 

And  rapine's  sword  has  wasted  half  the 


O'er  Europe  s  cultured  realms,  and  climes 
afar,  [war , 

Triumphant  Gaul  has  poured  the  tide  of 

To  her  fair  Austria  veiled  the  standard 
bright ;  [might ; 

Ausonias  lovely  plains  have  owned  her 


ENGLAND  AND  SPAIN. 


23 


While  Prussia's  eagle,  never  taught  to  yield, 
Forsook  her  towering  height  on  Jena's  field ! 

Oh  I  gallant  Fred'ric !  could  thy  'parted 
shade  [trayed ; 

Have  seen  thy  country  vanquished  and  be- 
How  had  thy  soul  indignant  mourned  her 
shame,  [fame ! 

Her  sullied  trophies   and    her  tarnished 
When  Valour  wept  lamented  Brunswick  s 
doom,  [tomb ; 

And  nursed  with  tears  the  laurels  on  his 
When  Prussia,  drooping  o'er  her  hero's 

grave, 

Invoked  his  spirit  to  descend  and  save, 
Then  set  her  glories— then  expired  her  sun, 
And  fraud  achieved — e'en  more  than  con- 
quest won ! 

[plenty  gay, 

O'er  peaceful  realms,  that  smiled  with 
Has  desolation  spread  her  ample  sway ; 
Thy  blast,  oh  Ruin !  on  tremendous  wings, 
Has  proudly  swept  o'er  empires,  nations, 

kings  ! 

Thus  the  wild  hurricane's  impetuous  force, 
With  dark  destruction  marks  its  whelming 
course ;  [ing  plain, 

Despoils  the  woodland's  pomp,  the  bloom- 
Death  on  its  pinion,  vengeance  in  its  train  I 

Rise,  Freedom,  rise  I  and  breaking  from 

thy  trance,  [lance  I 

Wave  the  dread  banner,  seize  the  glittering 
With  arm  of  might  assert  thy  sacred  cause, 
And  call  thy  champions  to  defend  thy  laws  ! 
How  long  shall  tyrant  power  her  throne 

maintain  ? 

How  long  shall  despots  and  usurpers  reign  ? 
Is  honour's  lofty  soul  for  ever  fled  ? 
Is  virtue  lost  ?  is  martial  ardour  dead  ? 
Is  there  no  heart  where  worth  and  valour 

dwell, 

No  patriot  Wallace,  no  undaunted  Tell  ? 
Ves,  Freedom,  yes  1  thy  sons,  a  noble  band, 
Around  thy  banner,  firm  exulting  stand  ; 
Once  more  'tis  thine,  invincible,  to  wield 
The  beamy  spear  and  adamantine  shield  1 
Again  thy  cheek   with  proud  resentment 

glows, 

Again  thy  lion-glance  appals  thy  foes  ; 
Thy  kindling  eye-beam  darts  unconquered 

fires,  [spires : 

Thy  look  sublime  the  warrior's  heart  in- 
And  while,  to  guard  thy  standard  and  thy 

right, 

Ca»tilians  rush,  intrepid  to  the  fight ; 
lx> !  Britain's  generous  host  then  aid  supply, 
Resolved  for  tbee  to  triumph  or^  die  ! 


And  glory  smiles  to  see  Iberia's  name, 
Enrolled  with  Albion's  in  the  book  of  fame  I 

Illustrious  names  !  still,  still  united  beam, 
Be  still  the  hero's  boast,  the  poet's  theme  : 
So  when  two  radiant  gems  together  shine, 
And  in  one  wreath  their  lucid  light  combine; 
Each,  as  it  sparkles  with  transcendent  rays, 
Adds  to  the  lustre  of  its  kindred  blaze  1 

Descend,  oh,  Genius  !  from  thy  orb  de- 
scend 1  [lend  I 
Thy  glowing  thought,  thy  kindling  spirit 
As  Memnon's  harp  (so  ancient  fables  say) 
With  sweet  vibration  meets  tha  morning 
ray,  [own, 
So  let  the  chords  thy  heavenly  presence 
And  swell  a  louder  note,  a  nobler  tone  . 
Call  from  the  sun,  her  burning  throne  on 

high, 

The  seraph  Ecstacy,  with  lightning  eye ; 
Steal  from  the  source  of  day  empyreal  fire, 
And  breathe  the  soul  of  rapture  o'er  the 
lyre  I 

Hail,  Albion !  hail,  thou  land  of  free- 
dom's birth  ! 

Pride  of  the  main,  and  Phoenix  of  the  earth  I 
Thou  second  Rome,  where  mercy,  justice, 

dwell, 

Whose  sons  in  wisdom  as  in  arms  excel ! 
Thine  are  the  dauntless  bands  like  SparUris 

brave, 

Bold  in  the  field,  triumphant  on  the  wave 
In  classic  elegance,  and  arts  divine, 
To  rival  Athens'  fairest  palm  is  thine  ; 
For  taste  and  fancy  from  Hymettus  fly, 
And  richer  bloom  beneath  thy  varying  sky, 
Where   science    mounts,   in   radiant   cai 

sublime, 

To  other  worlds  beyond  the  sphere  of  tio*e  ; 
Hail,  Albion,  hail  I  to  thee  has  fate  d«nied 
Peruvian  mines  and  rich  Hindostan's 

pnde  ; 

The  gems  that  Ormuz  and  Golconda\x>ast, 
And  all  the  wealth  of  Montezuma's  coast ; 
For  thee  no  Parian  marbles  brightly  shine  ; 
No  glowing  suns  mature  the  blushin 
No  light  Arabian  gales  their  wings 
To  waft  Sabasan  incense  o'er  the  land  ; 
No  graceful  cedars  crown  thy  loliy  hills, 
No  trickling  myrrh  for  thee  its  balm  distils.; 
Not  from  thy  trees  the  lucid  amber  flows, 
And  far  from  thee  the  scented  cassia  blows ; 
Yet  fearless  Commerce,  pillar  of  thy  throne, 
Makes  all  the  wealth  of  foreign  climes  th) 
own : 


24 


ENGLAND  AND  SPAIN. 


From  Lapland's  shore  to  Afric's  fervid  reign, 
She  bids  thy  ensigns  float  above  the  main  ; 
Unfurls  her  streamers  to  the  favouring  gale, 
And  shows  to  other  worlds  her  daring  sail ; 
Then  wafts  their  gold,  their  varied  stores 

to  thee, 
Queen  of  the  trident !  empress  of  the  sea  1 

For  this  thy    noble  sons  have  spread 

alarms,  [arms  1 

And  bade  the  zones  resound  with  Britain's 

Calpe's    proud  rock,  and  Syria's   palmy 

shore, 
Have  heard  and  trembled  at  their  battle's 

roar  I 

The  sacred  waves  of  fertilizing  Nile 
Have  seen  the  triumphs  of  the  conquering 

isle! 

For  this,  for  this,  the  Samiel-blast  of  war 
Has  rolled  o'er  Vincent's  cape  and  Tra- 
falgar I  [sound, 
Victorious  RODNEY  spread  thy  thunder's 
And  NELSON  fell,    with    fame  immortal 
crowned  I  gain — 
Blest  if  their  perils  and  their  blood  could 
To  grace  thy  hand — the  sceptre  of  the 

main  ! 

The  milder  emblems  of  the  virtues  calm, 
The  poet's  verdant  bay,  the  sage's  palm  ; 
^hese  in  thy  laurel's.blooming  foliage  twine, 
And  round  thy  brows  a  deathless  wreath 

combine  ; 

Not  Mincio's  banks,  nor  Mcles'  classic  tide, 
Are  hallowed  more  than  Avon's  hau 

side  : 

Nor  is  thy  Thames  a  less  inspiring  theme, 
Than  pure  Ilissus,  or  than  Tiber's  stream. 

Bright  in  the  annals  of  th'  impartial  page, 
Britannia's  heroes  live  from  age  to  age  ! 
From  ancient  days,  when  dwelt  her  savage 

race, 

Her  painted  natives,  foremost  in  the  chase, 
Free  from  all  cares  for  luxury  or  gain, 
Lords  of  the  wood,  and  monarchs  of  the 

plain  , 

To  these  Augustan  days,  when  social  arcs, 
Refine  and  meliorate  her  manly  hearts  ; 
From  doubtful  Arthur,  hero  of  romance, 
King  of  the  circled  board,  the  spear,  the 

lance,  [shield, 

To  those  who  recent  trophies  grace  her 
The  gallant  victors  of  Vimiera's  field  , 
Still  have  her  warriors  borne  th'  unfading 

crown,  [renown. 

And  made  the  British  flag  the  ensign  of. 

Spirit  of  Alfred  !  patriot  soul  sublime  I 
Thou  morning-star  of  error's  darkest  time  I 


Prince  of  the  lion-heart  I  whose  arm  in  fight, 
On  Syria's  plains  repelled  Saladin's  might, 
Edward  !  for  bright  heroic  deeds  revered, 
By  Cressy's  fame  to  Britain  still  endeared  I 
Triumphant  Henry  I   thou,   whose  valoul 

proud, 

The  lofty  plume  of  crested  Gallia  bowed  ! 
Look  down,  look  down,  exalted  Shades  I 

and  view 

Your  Albion  still  to  freedom's  banner  true ! 
Behold  the  land,  ennobled  by  your  fame, 
Supreme  in  glory,  and  of  spotless  name  : 
And,  as  the  pyramid  indignant  rears 
Its  awful  head,  and  mocks  the  waste  cl 

years  ; 

See  her  secure  in  pride  of  virtue  tower, 
While  prostrate  nations  kiss   the  rod  ot 

power. 

Lo  I    where  !wr  pinions  waving  high, 
aspire,  [fire !" 

Bold  victory  hovers  near,    "with  eyes  of 
While  Lusitania  hails,  with  just  applause, 
The  brave  defenders  of  her  injured  cause  ; 
Bids  the  full  song,  the  note  of  triumph  rise, 
And  swells  the  exulting  paean  to  the  skies  ! 

And  they,  who  late  with  -anguish,  hard  to 

tell,  [farewell  f 

Breathed  to  their  cherished  realms  a  sad 
Who,  as  the  vessel  bore  them  o'er  the  tide, 
Still  fondly  lingered  on  its  deck,  and  sighed  ; 
Gazed  on  the  shore,  till  tears  obscured  theif 

sight 

And  the  blue  distance  melted  into  light ; 
The  Royal  Exiles,  forced  by  Gallia's  hate, 
To  fly  for  refuge  in  a  foreign  state  : 
They,  soon  returning  o'er  the  western  main, 
Ere  long  may  view  their  clime  beloved  again,  i 
And  as  the  blazing  pillar  led  the  host 
Of  faithful  Israel,  o'er  the  desert  coast ; 
So  may  Britannia  guide  the  noble  band, 
O'ei  the  wild  ocean,  to  their  native  land. 
Oh  I  glorious  isle !   oh  !   sovereign  of  the 

waves  I  [slaves  I 

Thine  are  the  sons  who  never  will  be 
See  them  once  mure,  with  ardent  hearts 

advance 

And  rend  the  laurels  of  insulting  France ; 
To  brave  Castile  their  potent  aid  supply, 
And  wave,  oh  Freedom  I  wave  thy  sword 

on  high  I 

Is  there  no  hard  of.  heavenly  power  pee- 

sest, 

To  thrill,  to  rouse,  to  animate  the  breast  I 
Like  Shakspeare  o'er  the  secret  nftnd  to 

sway 
And  call  each  wnvvrard  passion  to  obey? 


ENGLAND  AND  SPAIN. 


OK 
UO 


Is  there  no  b.ird,  Imbued  with  hallowed  fire, 
To  wake  the   chords   of   Ossi.an's  magic 

lyre  ; 
Whose  numbers   breathing   all   his   flame 

divine, 

The  patriot's  name  to  ages  might  consign  ? 
Rise,  Inspiration,  rise,  be  this  thy  theme, 
And  mount,  like  Uriel,  on  the  golden  beam  ! 

Oh,  could  my  muse  on  seraph  pinion 

spring,  [bling  string ; 

And  sweep  with  rapture's  hand  the  trem- 
Could  she  the  bosom  energies  control, 
And  pour  impassioned  fervour  o'er  the  soul ; 
Oh !  could  she  strike  the  harp  to  Milton 

given,  [heaven. ! 

Brought  by  a  cherub  from  th'  empyrean 
Ah  1  fruitless  wish  !  ah  !  prayer  preferred  in 

vain, 
For  her !  the  humblest  of  the  woodland 

train  : 

Vet  shall  her  feeble  voice  essav  to  raise 
The  hymn  of  liberty,  the  song  of  praise  ! 

Iberian   bands  I    whose    noble   ardour 

glows, 

To  pour  confusion  on  oppressive  foes  ; 
Intrepid  spirits  hail  ;  'tis  yours  to  feel 
The  hero's  fire,  the  freeman's  godlike  zeal  I 
Not  to  secure  dominion's  boundless  reign, 
Ye  wave  the  flag  of  conquest  o'er  the  slain  ; 
No  cruel  rapine  leads  you  to  the  war, 
Nor  mad  ambition  whirled  in  crimson  car  ; 
No,  brave  Castilians  !  yours  a  nobler  end, 
Your  land,  your  laws,  your  monarch  to 

defend !  [rear 

For  these,  for  these,  your  valiant  legions 
The  floating  standard  and  the  lofty  spear  ; 
The  fearless  lover  wields  the  conquering 

sword, 

Fired  by  the  image  of  the  maid  adored  ; 
His  best-beloved,  his  fondest  ties  to  aid, 
The  Father's  hand  unsheaths  the  glittering 

blade; 

For  each,  for  all,  for  every  sacred  right, 
The  daring  patriot  mingles  in  the  fight ! 
And  e'en  if  love  or  friendship  fail  to  warm, 
His  country's  name  alone  can  nerve  his 

dauntless  arm. 

He  bleeds  !  he  falls  i  his  death-bed  is  the 
field !  [shield ; 

His  dirge  the  trumpet,  and  his  bier  the 
His  closing  eyes  the  beam  of  valour  speak, 
The  flush  of  ardour  lingers  on  his  cheek  ; 
Serene  he  lifts  to  heaven  those  closing  eyes, 
Then  for  his  country  breathes  a  prayer — 
and  dies  1 


Oh  1  ever  hallowed  be  his  verdant  grave, 
There  let  the  laurel  spread,   the  cypress 

wave ! 
Thou,  lovely  Spring  !  bestow,  to  grace  his 

tomb,  [bloom ; 

Thy  sweetest  fragrance  and  thy  earliest 
There  let  the  tears  of  heaven  descend  in  balm, 
There  let  the  poet  consecrate  his  palm  ! 
Let  honour,  pity,  bless  the  holy  ground, 
And  shades  of  sainted  heroes  watch  around! 
Twas  thus,  while  Glory  rung  his  thrilling 

knell, 

Thy  chief,  oh  Thebes  !  at  Mantinea  fell ;    ' 
Smiled  undismayed  within  the  arms  of  death, 
While  Victory,  weeping  nigh,  received  his 

breath  I 

Oh  !  thou,  thesovereignofthenoblesoul! 
Thou  source  of  energies  beyond  control  f 
Queen  of  the  lofty  thought,  the  gen'rous  deed, 
Whose  sons  unconquered  fight,  undaunted 

bleed. 

Inspiring  Liberty !  thy  worshipped  name 
The  warm  enthusiast  kindles  to  a  flame ; 
Thy  look  of  heaven,  thy  voice  of  harmony. 
Thy  charms  inspire  him  to  achievement* 

high ; 
More  blest,  with  thee  to  tread  perennial 

snows 
Where  ne'er  a  flower  expands,  a  zephyr 

.  blows, 

Where  Winter,  binding  nature  in  his  chain, 
In  frost-work  palace  holds  perpetual  reign  ; 
Than,  far  from  thee,  with  frolic  step  to  rove, 
The  green  savannas  and  the  spicy  grove  ; 
Scent  the  rich  balm  of  India's  perfumed 

gales, 

In  citron-woods  and  aromatic  vales  ; 
For  oh  !  fair  Liberty,  when  thou  art  near. 
Elysium  blossoms  in  the  desert  drear  1 

Where'er   thy_  smile    its    magic  power 

bestows, 
There  arts  and  taste  expand,  there,  fancy 

glows ; 

The  sacred  lyre  its  wild  enchantment  gives, 
And  every  chord  to  swelling  transport  lives; 
There  ardent  Genius  bids  the  pencil  trace 
The  soul  of  beauty  and  the  lines  of  grace ; 
With  bold  Promethean  hand  the  canvas 

warms, 
And  calls  from  stone  expression's  breathing 

forms. 
Thus,  where  the  fruitful  Nile  o'erflows  its 

bound, 

Its  genial  waves  diffuse  abundance  round, 
Bid  Ceres  laugh  o'er  waste  and  sterile  sands' 
And  rich  profusion  clothe  deserted  lands  I 


26 


ENGLAND  AND  tit  AIM. 


Immortal  Freedom !  daughter  of  the  skies  I 
To  thee  shall  Britain's  grateful  incense  rise  ! 
Ne'er,  goddess  I  ne'er  forsake  thy  favourite 

isle. 

Still  be  thy  Albion  brightened  with  thysmile. 
Long  had  thy  spirit  slept  in  dead  repose, 
Whileproudlytnumphed  thine  insultmgfoes; 
Yet  though  a  cloud  may  veil  Apollo's  light, 
Soon,  with  celestial  beam,  he  breaks  to  sight ; 
Once  more  we  see  thy  kindling  soul  reiura, 
Thy  vestal-flame  with  added  radiance  burn  ; 
Lo  I  in  Iberian  hearts  thine  ardour  lives. 
Lo  1  in  Ibenan  hearts  thy  spark  revives  I 

Proceed,   proceed,    ye  firm    undaunted 

band  I 

Still  sure  to  conquer,  if  combined  ye  stand  ! 
Though  myriads  flashing  in  the  eye  of  day, 
Streamed  o'er  the  smiling  land  in  long  array: 
Though  tyrantAsia  poured  unnumberedfoes, 
Triumphant  still  the  arm  of  Greece  arose ; 
For  every  state  in  sacred  union  stood, 
Strong  to  repel  invasion  s  whelming  flood  : 
Each  heart  was  glowing  in  the  general  cause, 
Each  hand  prepared  to  guard  their  hallowed 

laws : 

Athenian  valour  joined  Laconia's  might, 
And  but  contended  to  be  first  in  fight  , 
From  rank  to  rank  the  warm  contagion  ran, 
And  Hope  and  Freedom  ledtheflamingvan: 
Then  Persia's  monarch  mourned  his  glories 

lost, 

As  wild  confusion  winged  his  flying  host ; 
Then  Attic  bards  the  hymn  of  victory  sung, 
And  Grecian  harp  to  notes  exulting  rung  I 
Then  Sculpture  bade  the  Parianstone  record 
The  high  achievements  of  the  conquenng 

sword.  [renown, 

Thus,  brave  Castilians  !   thus  may  bright 
And  fair  success  your  valiant  efforts  crown  I 

Genius  of  chivalry  !  whose  early  days, 
Tradition  still  recounts  in  artless  lays  . 
Whose  faded  splendours  fancy  oft  recalls, 
The  floating  banners  and  the  lofty  halls  ; 
The  gallant  feats  thy  festivals  displayed. 
The  tilt,  the  tournament,  the  long  crusade 
Whose  ancient  pride  Romance  delights  to 

hail, 

In  fabling  numbers  or  heroic  tale : 
Those  times  are  fled,  when  stem  thy  castles 

frowned,  [crowned  ; 

Their  stately  towers  with  feudal  grandeur 
Those  times  are  fled,  when  fair  Iberia's 

clime, 

Beheld  thy  Gothic  reign,  thy  pomp, sublime; 
And  all  thy  glories,  all  thy  deeds  of  yore, 
Live  but  in  legends  wild  and  poeffe  lore. 


Lo  I  where  thy  silent  harp  neglected  lies. 
Light  o  er  its  chords  the  murmuring  zephyi 

sighs  ; 
Thy  solemn  courts,  where  once  the  minstrel 

sung, 

The  choral  voice  of  mirth  and  music  rung  ; 
Now,  with  the  ivy  clad,  forsaken,  lone, 
Hear  but  the  breeze  and  echo  to  its  moac  : 
Thy  lonely  towers  deserted  fall  away, 
Thy  broken  shield  is  mouldering  in  decay. 
Yet  though  thy  transient  pageantries  are 

gone, 

Like  fairy  visions,  bright,  yet  swiftly  flown  ; 
Genius  of  chivalry  !  thy  noble  train, 
Thy  firm,  exalted  virtues  yet  remain. 
Fair  truth  arrayed  in  robes  of  spotless  white, 
Her  eye  a  sunbeam  and  her  zone  of  light ; 
Warm  emulation,  with  aspiring  aim, 
Still  darting  forward  to  the  wreath  of  fame ; 
And  purest  love,  that  waves  his  torch  divine, 
At  awful  honour's  consecrated  shrine  ; 
Ardour  with  e^gle  wing,  and  fiery  glance  ; 
And  generous  courage,  resting  on  his  lance ; 
And  loyalty,  by  perils  unsubdued  ; 
Untainted  faith,  unshaken  fortitude  ; 
And  patriot  energy,  with  heart  of  flame ; 
These,  in  Ibena's  sons  are  yet  the  same  1 
These  from  remotest  days  their  souls  have 

fired,  [inspired  ! 

"Nerved   every  arm,"    and  every  breast 
When  Moorish  bands  their  suffering  land 

possest, 

And  fierce  oppression  reared  her  giant  crest; 
The  wealthy  caliphs  on  Cordova's  throne, 
In  eastern  gems  and  purple  splendourshonfe: 
Theirs  was  the  proud  magnificence,  that  wed 
With  stately  Bagdat  s  oriental  pride 
Theirs  were  thecourtsin  regal  pomp  arrayed 
Where  arts  and  luxury  their  charms  dis» 

.  played ;  [towers, 

Twas  theirs  to  rear  the  Zehrar's  costly 
Its. fairy  palace  and  enchanted  bowers ; 
There  all  Arabian  fiction  e'er  could  tell.  . 
Of  potent  genii  or  of  wizard  spell ; 
All  that  a  poet's  dream  could  picture  bright, 
Onesweet  Elysium,  charmed  the  wondering 

sight  I 

Too  fair,  too  rich,  for  work  of  mortal  hand, 
It  seemed  an  Eden  from  Armida's  wand  1 

yet  vain  their  pride,  their  wealth,  and  ra- 
diant state,  [fate ! 
When  freedom 'waved  on  high  the  sword  of 
When  brave  Ramiro  bade  the  despots  fear. 
Stern  retribution  frowning  on  his  spear  ; 
And  fierce  Almanzor,  after  many  a  fight, 
O'erwhelmed  with   shame,    confessed   thf 
Christian's  might. 


ENGLAND  AND  SPAIN. 


2? 


In  later  times  the  gallant  Cid  arose, 
Burning  with  zeal  against  his  country's  foes  ; 
His  victor-arm  Alphonso's   throne  main- 
tained, [gained  ! 
His  laureate  brows  the  wreath  of  conquest 
And  still  his  deeds  Castilian  bards  rehearse, 
Inspiring  theme  of  patriotic  verse ! 
High  in  the  temple  of  recording  fame, 
Iberia  points  to  great  Gohsalvo's  name ; 
Victorious  chief !  whose  valour  still  defied 
The  arms  of  Gaul,  and  bowed  her  crested 

pride ;  [reign's  throne, 

With  splendid  trophies  graced  his  sove- 
And  bade  Granada's  realms  his  prowess  own. 
Nor  were  his  deeds  thy  only  boast,  oh  Spain  1 
In  mighty  Ferdinand's  illustrious  reign  ; 
Twas  then  thy  glorious  Pilot  spread  the  sail, 
Unfurled  his  flag  before  the  eastern  gale ! 
Bold,  sanguine,  fearless,  ventured  to  explore 
Seas   unexplored,   and   worlds   unknown 

before : 

Fair  science  guided  o'er  the  liquid  realm, 
Sweet  hope,  exulting,  steered  the  dariag 

helm ; 

While  on  the  mast,  with  ardour-flashing  eye, 
Courageous  enterprise  still  hovered  nigh  : 
The  hoary  genius  of  th'  Atlantic  main, 
Saw  man  invade  his  wide  majestic  reiga ; 
His  empire  yet  by  mortal  unsubdued, 
The  throne,  the  world,  of  awful  solitude. 
And  e'en  when  shipwreck  seemed  to  rear  his 

form, 

And  dark  'destruction  menaced  in  the"storra, 
In  every  shape,  when  giant-peril  rose, 
T,o  daunt  his  spirit  and  his  course  oppose ; 
O'er  every  heart  wh^n  terror  sWayed  alone, 
And  hope  forsook  each  bosom,  but  his  own : 
Moved  by  no  dangers,  by  no  fears  repelled, 
His  glorious  track  the  gallant  sailor  held. 
Attentive  still  to  mark  the  sea-birds  lave, 
Or  high  in  air  their  snowy  pinions  wave : 
Thus  princely  Jason,  launching  from  the 

steep,     '  [veiled  deep ; 

With  dauntless  prow  explored  th'  untra- 
Thus,  at  the  helm,  Ulysses'  watchful  sight, 
Viewed  every  star,  and  planetary  light. 
Sublime  Columbus !  when  at  length  descried, 
The  long-sought  land  arose  above  the  tide ; 
How  every  heart  with  exultation  glowed, 
How  from  each  eye  the  tear  of  transport 

flowed : 

Not  wilder  joys  the  sons  of  Israel  knew, 
When  Canaan's  fertile  plains  appeared 'in 

view ; 

Then  rose  the  choral  anthem  on  the  breeze, 
Then  martial  music  floated  o'er  the  seas ; 
Theirwaving  streamers  to  the  sun  displayed, 
In  all  the  pride  of  warlike  pomp  arrayed ; 


Advancing  nearer  still,  the  ardent  band, 
Hailed  the  glad  shore,  and  blessed  the 

stranger  land. 
Admired  its  palmy  groves  and  prospects  fair, 
With  rapture  breathed  its  pure  ambrosial  air  V 
Then  crowded  round  its  free  and  simple  race, 
Amazement  pictured  wild  on  every  face : 
Who  deemed  that  beings  of  celestial  birth, 
Sprung  from  the  sun,  descended  to  the  earth  1 
Then  first  another  world,  another  sky, 
Beheld  Iberia's  banner  blaze  on  high  I' 

Still  prouder  glories  beam  on  history's 

page,  [age : 

Imperial  Charles !  to  mark  thy  prosperous 
Those  golden  days  of  arts  and  fancy  bright, 
When  science  poured  her  mild  refulgent 

light ; 
When  Painting  bade  the  glowing  canvas 

breathe,  [wreath ; 

Creative  Sculpture  claimed  the  living 
When  roved  the  Muses  in  Ausonian  bowers, 
Weaving  immortal  crowns  of  fairest  flowers; 
When  angel  truth  dispersed  with  beam 

divine,  [shrine. 

The  clouds  that  veiled  religion's  hallowed 
Those  golden  days  beheld  Iberia  tower, 
High  on  the  pyramid  of  fame  and  power : 
Vain  all  the  efforts  of  her  numerous  foes, 
Her  might,  superior  still,  triumphant  rose. 
Thus,  on  proud  Lebanon's  exalted  brow, 
The  cedar,  frowning  o'er  the  plains  below, 
Though  storms  assail,  its  regal  pomp  to  rend, 
Majestic  still  aspires,  disdaining  e'er  to  bend. 

When  Gallia  poured,. to  Pavia's  trophied 
plain,  [train  ; 

Her  youthful  knights,  a  bold,  impetuous 
When,  after  many  a  toil  and  danger  past, 
The  fatal  morn  of  conflict  rose  at  last ; 
That  morning  saw  her  glittering  host  com- 
bine, 
And  form  in  close  array  the  threatening 

line ; 

Fire  in  each  eye,  and  force  in  every  arm, 
With  hope  exulting,  and  with  ardour  warm, 
Saw  to  the  gale  their  streaming  ensigns  play, 
Their  armour  flashing  to  the  beam  of  day  ; 
Their  generous  chargers  panting,  spurn  tiie 

ground, 

Roused  by  the  trumpet's  animating  sound ; 
And  heard  in  air  their  warlike  music  float, 
The  martial  pipe,  the  drum's  inspiring  note  1 

Pale  set  the  sun — the  shades  of  evening 

fell, 

The  mournful  night-wmd  rung  their  funeral 
knell  I 


ENGLAND  AND  SPAIN. 


And  the  same  day  beheld  the  warriors  dead, 
Their  sovereign  captive,  and  their  glories 

fled! 

Fled,  like  the  lightning's  evanescent  fire, 
Bright,  blazing,  dreadful — only  to  expire  ! 
Then,  then,  while  prostrate  Gaul  confessed 

'  her  might, 

Iberia's  planet  shed  meridian  light' I 
Norless.onfamedSt.Quintin'sdeathfulday, 
Castilian  spirit  bore  the  prize  away.; 
Laurels  that  still  their  verdure  shall  retain, 
And  trophies  beaming  high  in  glory's  fane  I 
And  lo  I   her  heroes,  warm  with  kindred 

flame, 

Still  proudly  emulate  their  father's  fame ; 
Still  with  the  soul  of  patriot-valour  glow. 
Still  rush  impetuous  to  repel  the  foe  I 
Wave  the  bright  falchion,  lift  the  beamy 

spear, 

And  bid  oppressive  Gallia  learn  to  fear  1 
Be  theirs,  be  theirs  unfading  honour's  crown, 
The  living  amaranths  of  bright  renown  I 
Be  theirs  th'  inspiring  tribute  of  applause, 
Due  to  the  champions  of  their  country's 

cause  1 

Be  theirs  the  purest  bliss  that  virtue  loves, 
The  joy  when  conscience  whispers  and  ap- 
proves, 
When  every  heart  is  fired,  each  pulse  beats 

high, 

To  fight,  to  bleed,  to  fall  for  Liberty ; 
When  every  hand  is  dauntless  and  prepared, 
The  sacred  charter  of  mankind  to  guard  ; 
When  Britain's  valiant  sons  their  aid  unite, 
Fervent  and   glowing  still  for  Freedom's 

right, 

Bid  ancient  enmities  for  ever  cease, 
And  ancient  wrongs   forgotten,  sleep  in 

peace ; 
When  firmly  leagued,  they  joined  the  patriot 

band, 
Can  venal  slaves  their  conquering  arms 

withstand  ? 

Can  fame  refuse  their  gallant  deeds  to  bless 
Can  victory  fail  to  crown  them  with  success  ? 
Look  down,  oh  Heaven  I  the  righteous  cause 

maintain. 

Defend  the  injured,  and  avenge  the  slain  ! 
Despot  of  France !  destroyer  of  mankind  I 
What  spectre-cares  must  haunt  thy  sleepless 

mind. 

Oh  I  if  at  midnight  round  thy  regal  bed, 
Wbensoothing  visions  fly  thine  aching  head 
When  sleep  denies  thy  anxious  cares  to  calm, 
And  lull  thy  senses  in  his  opiate-balm  : 
Invoked  by  guilt,  if  airy  phantoms  rise, 
And  murdered  victims  bleed  before  thine 


Loud  let  them  thunder  in  thy  troubled  car, 
"'Tyrant!  the  hour,  the  avenging  hour  ts 

near ! 

It  is,  it  is !  thy  star  withdraws  its  ray, 
Soon  will  its  parting  lustre  fade  away ; 
Soon  will  Cimmerian  shades  obscure  its 

light, 

And  veil  thy  splendours  in  eternal  night ! 
Oh  !  when  accusing  conscience  wakes  thy 

soul, 

With  awful  terrors,  and  with  dread  control 
Bids  threatening  forms,  appalling,  round 

thee  stand, 
And  summons  all  her  visionary  band  ; 
Calls  up  the  parted  shadows  of  the  dead, 
And  whispers,  peace  and  happiness  are  fled; 
E'en  at  the  time  of  silence  and  of  rest, 
Paints  the    dire    poniard   menacing   thy 

breast ; 

Is  then  thy  cheek  with  guilt  and  horror  pale  ? 
Then  dost  thou  tremble,  does  thy  spirit  fail  ? 
And  wouldst  thou  yet  by  added  crimes  pro- 
voke 
The  bolt  of  heaven  to  launch  the  fatal 

stroke  ? 

Bereave  a  nation  of  its  rights  revered, 
Of  all  to  mortals  sacred  and  endeared  ? 
And  shall  they  tamely  liberty  resign, 
The  soul  of  life,  the  source  of  bliss  divine  ? 
Canst  thou,  supreme  destroyer  1  hope  to 

bind, 

In  chains  of  adamant,  the  noble  mind  ? 
Go  bid  the  royal  orbs  thy  mandate  hear. 
Go,  stay  the  lightning  in  its  winged  career  I 
No,  Tyrant  I  no,  thy  utmost  force  is  vain, 
The  patriot-arm  of  Freedom  to  restrain  : 
Then  bid  thy  subject-bands  in  armour  shine, 
Then  bid  thy  legions  all  their  power  com- 
bine, [mand, 
Yet  couldst  thou  summon  myriads  at  corn- 
Did  boundless  realms  obey  thy  sceptred 
hand,  [spurn, 
E'en  then  her  soul  thy  lawless  might  would 
E'en  then,  with  kindling  fire,  with  indig- 
nation burn 

Ye  Sons  of  Albion !  first  in  danger's  field, 
The  sword  of  Britain  and  of  truth  to  wield  I 
Still  prompt  the  injured  to  defend  and  save, 
Appal  the  despot,  and  assist  the  brave ; 
Who  now  intrepid  lift  the  generous  blade, 
The  cause  of  Justice  and  Castile  to  aid  I 
Ye  Sons  of  Albion  1  by  your  country's  name 
Her  crown  of  glory,  her  unsullied  fame, 
Oh  !  by  the  shades  of  Cressy's  martial  dead, 
By  warrior-bands,  at  Agincourt  who  bled  ; 
By  honours  gained  on  Blenheim's  fatal  plain, 
By  those  in  Victory's  arms  at  Minden  slain  : 


ENGLAND  AND  SPAIN. 


29 


By  the  bright  laurels  Wolfe  immortal  won, 
Undaunted  spirit  1  valour's  favourite  son  1 
By  Albion's  thousand,  thousand  deeds 

sublime,  [clime ; 

Renowned  from  zone  to  zone,  from  clime  to 
Ye  British  heroes  !  may  your  trophies  raise, 
A  deathless  monument  to  future  days  I 
Oh !  may  your  courage  still  triumphant  rise, 
Exalt  the  "lion-banner"  to  the  skies  ! 
Transcend  the  fairest  names  in  history's 

page, 

The  brightest  actions  of  a  former  age  ; 
The  reign  of  Freedom  let  your  arms  restore, 
And  bid  oppression  fall — to  rise  no  more  I 
Then,  soon  returning  to  your  native  isle, 
May  love  and  beauty  hail  you  with  their 

smile ;  [wreath, 

For  you  may  conquest  weave  th'  undying 
And  fame  and  glory's  voice  the  song  of 

rapture  breathe  1 

Ah  I  when  shall  mad  ambition  cease  to 

rage  ?  [assuage  ? 

Ah  I   when   shall    war  his   demon-wrath 

When,  when,  supplanting  discord's  iron 

reign, 

Shall  mercy  wave  her  olive;wand  again  ? 
Not  till  the  despot's  dread  career  is. closed, 
And  might  restrained,  and  tyranny  deposed ! 

Return,    sweet    Peace,    ethereal    form 

benign  I 

Fair  blue-eyed  seraph !  balmy  power  divine, 
Descend  once  more,  thy  hallowed  blessings 
bring,  [downy  wing  ; 

Wave  thy  bright  locks,   and  spread   thy 
Luxuriant  plenty  laughing  iv  thy  train, 
Shall  crown  with  glowing  stores  the  desert 

plain  ; 

Young  smiling  hope,  attendant  on  thy  way, 
Shall  gild  thy  path  with  mild  celestial  ray. 
Descend  once  more  1  thou  daughter  of  the 

sky! 

Cheer  every  heart  and  brighten  every  eye  I 
Justice,  thy  harbinger,  before  thee  send, 
Thy  myrtle-sceptre  o'er  the  globe  extend  : 
Thy  cherub-look  again,  shall  sooth  man- 
kind ;  [bind ; 
Thy  cherub-hand  the  wounds  of  discord 
Thy  smile  of  heaven  shall  every  museinspire; 
To  thee  the  bard  shall  strike  the  silver  lyre. 
Descend  once  more  1  to  bid  the  world 

rejoice, 
Yet  nations  hail  thee  with  exulting  voice  ; 


Around   thy   shrine   with   purest  incense 
throng,  [song  1 

Weave  '<he  fresh  palm,  and  swell  the  choral 
Then  shall  the  shepherd's  flute,  the  wood- 
land reed,  , 

The  martial  clarion,  and  the  drum  succeed  ; 
Again  shall  bloom  Arcadia's  fairest  flowers, 
And  music  warble  in  Idaiian  bowers  ; 
Where  war  and  carnage  blew  the  blast  of 

death, 
The   gale   shall  whisper   with    Favonian 

breath ! 

And  golden  Ceres  bless  the  festive  swain, 
Where  the  wild  combat  reddened  o'er  the 

plain : 
These  are  thy  blessings,   fair  benignant 

maid  I 

Return,  return,  in  vest  of  light  arrayed  1 
Let  angel-forms  and  floating  sylphids  bear, 
Thy  car  of  sapphire  through  the  realms  oi 

air,  , 

With  accents  milder  than  ^Eolian  lays, 
When  o'er  the  harp  the  fanning  zephyr  plays , 
Be  thine  to  charm  the  raging  world  to  rest, 
Diffusing  round   the  heaven — that  glows 
within  thy  breast  1 

Oh  I  Thou !  whose  fiat  lulls  the  storm 

asleep  1  [deep  I 

Thou  1  at  whose  nod  subsides  the  rolling 

Whose  awful  word  restrains  the  whirlwind's 

force, 

And  stays  the  thunder  in  its  vengeful  course ; 
Fountain  of  life  !     Omnipotent  Supreme  ! 
Robed  in  perfection  1  crowned  with  glory's 

beam  1 

Oh  !  send  on  earth  thy  consecrated  dove. 
To  bear  the  sacred  olive  from  above  ; 
Restore  again  the  blest;  the  halcyon  time, 
The  festal  harmony  of  nature's  prime : 
Bid  truth  and  justice  once  again  appear, 
And  spread  their  sunshine  o'er  this  mun- 
dane sphere ; 
Bright  in  their  path,  let  wreaths  unfading 

bloom, 
Transcendent   light   their   hallowed   fane 

illume ; 

Bid  war  and  anarchy  for  ever  cease, 
And  kindred  seraphs  rear  the  shrine  of  peace ; 
Brothers  once  more,  letmen  her  empire  own, 
And  realms  and  monarchs  bend  before  the 

throne, 

While  circling  rays  of  angel-mercy  shed 
Eternal  haloes  round  her  sainted  hetwL 


I8l2 


THE  DOMESTIC  AFFECTIONS. 


WHENCE  art  those  tranquil  joys  in  mercy 

given  [Heaven  ? 

To  Ught  the  wilderness  with  beams  of 
To  soothe  our  cares,  and  through  the  cloud 

diffuse 

Their  tempered  sunshine  and  celestial  hues? 
Those  pure  delights,  ordained  on  life  to 

throw 

Gleams  of  the  bliss  ethereal  natures  know  ? 
Say,  do  they  grace  Ambition  s  regal  throne, 
When  kneeling  myriads  call  the  world  his 
^own  ?  [bowers. 

Or  dwell  with  luxury,  in  the  enchanted 
Where  taste  and  wealth  exert  creative 

powers. 

Favoured  of  Heaven  I  O  Genius  t  are  they 
thine,  [shine ; 

When  round  thy  brow  the  wreaths  of  glory 
While  rapture  gazes  on  thy  radiant  way, 
'Midst  the  bright  realms  of  clear  and  mental 
day  ?  [shnned, 

No,  sacred  joys,  'tis  yours  to  dwell  en- 
Most  fondly  cherished  in  the  purest  mind  ; 
To  twine  with  flowers,  those  loved  endearing 

ties, 
On  earth  so  sweet— so  perfect  in  the  skies. 

Nursed  on  the  lap  of  solitude  and  shade, 
The  violet  smiles,  embosomed  in  the  glade ; 
There  sheds  her  spirit  on  the  lonely  gale, 
Gem  of  seclusion  I  treasure  of  the  vale  I 
Thus,  far  retired  from  life's  tumultuous  road, 
Domestic  bliss  has  fixed  her  calm  abode. 
Where  hallowed  innocence  and  sweet  repose 
May  strew  her  shadowy  path  with  many  a 

rose.  [shy. 

As,  when  dread  thunder  shakes  the  troubled 
The  cherub,  infancy,  can  close  its  eye, 
And  sweetly  smile,  unconscious  of  a  tear. 
While  viewless  angels  wave  their  pinions 

near ;  [roll, 

Thus,  while  around  the  storms  of  discord 
Borne  on  resistless  wing,  from  pole  to  pole ; 
While  war's  red  lightnings  desolate  the  ball, 
And  thrones  and  empires  in  destruction  fall ; 
Then,  calm  as  evening  on  the  silvery  wave, 
When  the  wind  slumbers  in  the  ocean  cave, 
She  dwells,  unruffled,  in  her  bower  of  rest, 
£fer  empire,  home  I— her  throne, 

breas»  I 


For  her.  sweet  nature  wears  her  loveliest 

blooms, 

And  softer  sunshine  every  scene  illumes. 
When  spring  awakes  the  splntcf  the  breeze, 
Whose  light  wing  undulates  the  sleeping 

seas . 

When  summer,  waving  her  creative  wand, 
Bids  verdure  smile,  and  glowing  life  expand ; 
Or  autumn  s  pencil  shed,  with  magic  trace, 
O  er  fading  loveliness,  a  moonlight  grace  ; 
Oh,  still  for  her.  through  nature's  boundless 

reign, 

No  charm  is  lost,  no  beauty  blooms  in  -vain ; 
While  mental  peace,  o'er  every  prospect 

bright,  [light. 

Throws  mellowing  tints,  and  harmonizing 
Lo  I  borne  on  clouds  in  rushing  might 

sublime, 

Stem  winter,  bursting  from  the  polai  clime. 
Triumphant  waves  his  signal-torch  on  high, 
The  blood-red  meteor  of  the  northern  sky : 
And  high  through  darkness  rears  his  giant- 
form,  [storm  I 
His  throne,  the  billow — and  his  flag,  the 
Yet  then,  when  bloom  and  sunshine  are  no 

more, 

And  the  wild  surges  foam  along  the  shore ; 
Domestic  bliss  !  thy  heaven  is  still  serene, 
Thy  star,  unclouded,  and  thy  myrtle  green ; 
Thy  fane  of  rest  no  raging  storms  invade, 
Sweet  peace  is  thine,  the  seraph  of  the  shade; 
Clear  through  the  day.  her  light  around 

thee  glows. 

And  gilds  the  midnight  of  thy  deep  repose. 
Hail !  sacred  home  I  where  soft  affection's 

hand,  [band, 

With  flowers  of  Eden  twines  her  magic 
Where  pure  and  bright,  the  social  ardours 

rise, 

Concentrating  all  their  holiest  energies ; 
When  wasting  toil  had  dimmed  the  rital 

flame. 

And  every  power  deserts  the  sinking  frame ; 
Exhausted  nature  still  from  sleep  implores 
The  charm  that   lulls,   the   manna  that 

restores.  [cares, 

Thus,  when  oppressed  with  rude  tumultuous 
To  thee.  sweet  home,  the  fainting  mind 

repairs, 

Still  to  thy  breast,  a  wearied  pilgrim  flies, 
Her  ark  of  refuge  from  uncertain  skies 


THE  DOMESTIC  AFFECTIONS. 


31 


Bower  of  repose  !  when  torn  from  all  we 
love,  [tance  rove ; 

Fbrough  toil  we  struggle,  or  through  dis- 
To  thet  we  turn,  still  faithful,  from  afar. 
Thee,  our  bright  vista  I  thee,  our  magnet- 
star!  [sea, 
And  from  the  martial  field,  the  troubled 
Unfettered  thought  still  roves  to  bliss  and 
thee! 

When  ocean-soundsln  awful  slumber  die, 
No  wave  to  murmur,  and  no  gale  to  sigh  ; 
Wide  o'er  the  world,  when  peace  and  mid- 
night reign, 

And  the  moon  trembles  on  the  sleeping  main, 
At  that  still  hour,  the  sailor  wakes  to  keep, 
'Midst  the  dead  calm,  the  vigil  of  the  deep; 
No  gleaming  shores  his  dim  horizon  bound, 
All  heaven— and  sea  — and  solitude— 

around  1 

Then  from  the  lonely  deck,  the  silent  helm, 
From  the  wide  grandeur  of  the  shadowy 

realm ; 

Still  homeward  borne,  his  fancy  unconfmed, 
Leaving  the  worlds  of  ocean  far  behind, 
Wings  like  a  meteor-flash  her -swift  career, 
To  the  loved  scene,  so  distant  and  so  dear. 

Lo  I  the  rude  whirlwind  rust.w  from  its 

cave,  [wave  I 

And  danger  frowns — the  monarch  of  the 

Lo !  rocks  and  storms  the  striving  bark 

repel,  [swell. 

And  death  and  shipwreck  ride  the  foaming 

Child  of  the  ocean  I  is  thy  bier  the  surge, 
Thy  gravethe  billow,  and  thewind  thy  dirge! 
Yes !  thy  long  toils,  thy  weary  conflicts  o'er, 
No  storm  shall  wake,  no  perils  rouse  thee 

more. 

Vet,  in  that  solemn  hour,  that  awful  strife, 
The  struggling  agony  for  death  or  life  ; 
E'en  then,  thy  mind,  embittering  every  pain, 
Retraced  the  image  so  beloved — in  vain  ; 
Still  to  sweet  home,  thy  last  regrets  were 

true,. 
Life's  parting  sigh— the  murmur  of  adieu. 

Can  war's  dread  scenes  the  hallowed  ties 

efface,  [brance  chase 

Each  tender  thought,  each  fond  remem- 
Can  fields  of  carnage,  days  of  toil,  destroy 
The  loved  impressions  of  domestic  joy. 

Yc  daylight  dreams,  that  cheer  the  sol- 
dier's breast, 

la  hostile  climes,  with  spells  benign  and 
blest; 


Soothe  bis  brave  heart,  and  shed  yotrr 
[glowing  ray. 
O'er  the  long  march,  through  desolation's 

way ;  [plain, 

Oh  1  still  ye  bear  him  from  the  ensanguined 
Armour's  bright  flash,  and  victory's  choral 

strain ;  fglows, 

To  that  loved  home,  where  pure  affection 
That  shrine  of  bliss !  asylum  of  repose  ! 
When,  all  is  hushed— the  rage  of  combat 

past,  [blast ; 

And  no  dread  war-note  swells  the  moaning 
When  the  warm  throb  of  many  a  .heart  is 

o'er,  [more ; 

And  many  an  eye  is  closed— to  wake  no 
Lulled  'by  the  night-wind,  pillowed  on  the 

ground, 

The  dewy  deathbed  of  his  comrades  round!) 
While  o'er  the  slain  the  tears  of  midnight 

weep,  [deep ; 

Faint  with  fatigue,  he  sinks  in  slumbers 
Eeo  then,  soft  visions,  hovering  round, 


portray, 


rsw 

iis  bo 


sway ; 


He  sees  fond  transport  light  each  beaming 
face,  [brace ; 

Meets  the  warm  teardrop,  and  the  long5 em- 
While  the  sweet  welcome  vibrates  through 

his  heart, 
"  Hail,  weary  soldier  I— never  more  to  part." 

And  lo  I  at  last,  released  from  every  toil, 
He  comes  I  the  wanderer  views  his  native 
soil !  [speak, 

Then  the  bright  raptures,  words  can  never 
Flash  in  his  eye,  and  mantle  o'er  his  cheek ; 
Then  love  and  friendship,  whose  unceasing 
prayer  [care , 

Implored  for  him,  each  guardian  spirit's 
Who,  for  his  fate,  through  sorrow's  linger- 
ing year,  [and  fear ; 
Had  proved  each  thrilling  pulse  of  hope 
In  that  blest  moment,  all  the  past  forget, 
Hours  of  suspense  1  and  vigils  of  regret 

And  oh !   for  him,  the  child  of  rude 

alarms, 

Reared  by  stern  danger  in  the  school  of  arms ; 
How  sweet  to  change  the  war-song's  pealing 

note,  [float. 

For  woodland  sounds,  in  summer  air  that 
Through  vales  of  peace,  o'er  mountain  wilds 

to  roam,  ["  Home  I" 

And  breathe  his  native  gales  that  whisper 

Hail !  sweet  endearments  of  domestic 

ties, 
Charms  of  ^existence !  aw;el  sympathies  I 


THE  DOMESTIC)  AFFECTIONS. 


Though  pleasure  smiie,  e  soft  Circassian 
queen !  [scene ; 

And  guide  her  votaries  through  a  fairy 

Where  sylphic  forms  beguile  their  vernal 
hours. 

With  mirth  and  music,  in  Arcadian  bowers ; 

Though  gazing  nations  hail  the  fiery  car, 

That  bears  the  sun  of  conquest  from  afar ; 

While  Fame's  loud  paean  bids  his  heart 
rejoice, 

And  every  life-pulse  vibrates  to  her  voice  ; 

Yet  from  your  source  alone  in  mazes  bright, 

Flows  the  full  current  of  serene  delight. 

On  freedom's  wing,  that  every  wild  ex- 
plores, [soars  ; 
Through  realms  of  space,  the  aspiring  eagle 
Darts  o'er  the  clouds,  exulting  to  admire, 
Meridian  glory — on  her  throne  of  fire ; 
Bird  of  the  sun  !  his  keen,  unwearied  gaze, 
Hails  the  full  noon,  and  triumphs  in  the 
blaze ;                                   [sublime, 
But   soon,    descending  from   his   height 
Day's  burning  fount,  and  light's  empyreal 
clime  [blest, 
Once  more  he  speeds  to  joys  more  calmly 
'Midst  the  dear  inmates  of  his  lonely  nest. 

Thus  Genius,  mounting  on  his  bright 
career,  [sphere ; 

Through  the  wide  regions  of  the  mental 
And  proudly  waving,  in  his  gifted  hand, 
O'er  Fancy's  worlds,    Invention's  plastic 
wand ;  [surveys 

Fearless    and    firm,    with    lightning-eye 
The  clearest  heaven  of  intellectual  rays  ; 
Yet  on  his  courset  hough  loftiest  hopes  attend, 
And  kindling  raptures  aid  him  to  ascend  ; 
(While  in  his  mind,  with  high-born  gran- 
deur fraught, 

Dilate  the  noblest  energies  of  thought ;) 
Still,  from  the  bliss,  ethereal  and  refined, 
Which  crowns  the  soarings  of  triumphant 

mind, 

At  length  he  flies,  to  that  serene  retreat, 
Where  calm  and  pure,  the  mild  affections 

meet, 

Embosomed  there,  to  feel  and  to  impart, 
The  softer  pleasures  of  the  social  heart. 

Ah  1  weep  for  those  deserted  and  forlorn, 
From  every  tie,  by  fate  relentless  torn. 
See,  on  the  barren  coast,  the  lonely  isle, 
Marked  with  no  step,  uncheered  by  human 
smile  ;  [wanderer  stand, 

Heart-sick    and    faint,    the    shipwrecked 
Raise  the  dim  «ye,  and  lift  the  suppliant 
baad  . 


Explore  with  fruitless  gase   the  billowy 

•     main, 

And  weep— and  pray — and  linger  I— but  in 
vain. 

Thence,   roving  wild  through  many  a 

depth  of  shade, 
Where  voice  ne'er  echoed,  footstep  never 

strayed  ; 

He  fondly  seeks,  o'er  cliffs  and  deserts  rude, 
Haunts  of  mankind,  'midst  realms  of  soli- 
tude ; 

And  pauses  oft,  and  sadly  hears  alone. 
The  wood's  deep  sigh,  the  surge's  distant 

moan; 

All  else  is  hushed  !  so  silent,  so  profound, 
As  if  some  viewless  power,  presiding  round, 
With  mystic  spell  unbroken  by  a  breath : 
Had  spread  for  ages  the  repose  of  death  ; 
Ah  I  still  the  wanderer,  by  the  boundless 

deep,  [weep ; 

Lives  but  to  watch,— and  watches  but  tc 
He  sees  no  sail  in  faint  perspective  rise, 
His  the  dread  loneliness  of  sea  and  skies  ; 
Far  from  his  cherished  friends,  his  native 

shore, 

Banished  from  being — to  return  no  more  1 
There  must  he  die  ! — within  that  circling 

wave, 
That  lonely  isle-^his  prison  and  his  grave. 

Lo '  through  the  waste,  the  wilderness  oi 

snows, 

With  fainting  step,  Siberia's  exile  goes ; 
Homeless  and  sad,  o'er  many  a  polar  wild, 
Where  beam,  or  flower,  or  verdure  never 

smiled,  [reign, 

Where  frost  and  silence  hold  their  despot- 
And  bind  existence  in  eternal  chain  ; 
Child  of  the  desert  I  pilgrim  of  the  gloom, 
Dark  is  the  path  which  leads  thee  to  the 

tomb ; 

While  on  thy  faded  cheek,  the  arctic  air 
Congeals  the  bitter  tear-drop  of  despair  ; 
Yet  not,  that  fate  condemns  thy  closing  day 
In  that  stern  clime,  to  shed  its  parting  ray 
Not  that  fair  Nature's  loveliness  and  light. 
No  more  shall  beam  enchantment  on  thy 

sight ; 

Ah  !  not  for  this,  far,  far  beyond  relief, 
Deep  in  thy  bosom  dwells  the  hopeless 

grief; 

But  that  no  friend  of  kindred  heart  is  there. 
Thy  woes  to  meliorate,  thy  toils  to  share  ; 
That  no  mild  soother  fondly  shall  assuage ; 
The  stormy  trials  of  thy  lingering  age  ; 
No  smile  of  tenderness,  with  angel  power, 
Lull  the  dread  pangs  of  dissolution's  hour ; 


THE  'DOMESTIC  AFFECTIONS. 


For  this  alone,  despair,  a  withering  guest, 
Sits  on  thy  brow,  and  cankers  in  thy  breast. 

Yes,  there,  e'en  there,  in  that  tremendous 
clime,  [sublime ; 

Where  desert  grandeur  frowns,  in  pomp 

Where  winter  triumphs,  through  the  polar 
night, 

In  all  his  wild  magnificence  of  might ; 

E'en  there,  Affection's  hallowed  spell  might 
pour,  [shore ; 

The  light  of  heaven  around  the  inclement 

And,  hike  the  vales  with  bloom  and  sun- 
shine graced, 

That  smile,  by  circling  Pyrenees  embraced, 

Teach  the  pure  heart,  with  vital  fires  to 
glow, 

E'en  'midst  the  world  of  solitude  and  snow ; 

The  Halcyon's  charm,  thus  dreaming 
fictions  feign,  [main ; 

With  mystic  power  could  tranquillize  the 

Bid  the  loud  wind,  the  mountain-billow 
sleep,  [deep. 

And  peace  and  silence  brood  upon  the 

And  thus,  Affection,  can  thy  voice  com- 
pose 

The  stormy  tide  of  passions  and  of  woes  ; 
Bid  every  throb  of  wild  emotion  cease, 
And  lull  misfortune  in  the  arms  of  peace, 

Oh  I  mark  yon  drooping  form,  of  aged 

mien,  [serene ; 

Wan,    yet    resigned,    and    hopeless   yet 
Long  ere  victorious  time  had  sought  to 

chase  [his  face  ; 

The  bloom,  the  smile,  that  once  illumed 
That  faded  eye  was  dimmed  with  many  a 

care,  [despair; 

Those  waving  locks  were  silvered  by 
Yet  filial  love  can  pour  the  sovereign  balm, 
Assuage  his  pangs,  his  wounded  spirit  calm. 
He,  a  sad  emigrant  I  condemned  to  roam 
In  life's  pale  autumn  from  his  ruined  home : 
Has  borne  the  shock  of  peril's  darkest  wave, 
Where  joy— and  hope — and  fortune — found 

a  grave  I 

'Twas  his  to  see  destruction's  fiercest  band, 
fcush,  like  a  TYPHON,  on  his  native  land, 
And  roll,  triumphant,  on  their  blasted  way, 
In  fire  and  blood— the  deluge  of  dismay  ; 
Unequal  combat  raged  on  many  a  plain, 
And  patriot  valour  waved  the  sword— in 

vain. 

Ah  I  gallant  exile  !  nobly,  long  he  bled 
Long  braved  the  tempest  gathering  o'er  his 

head 

Till  all  was  lost,  and  horror's  darkening  eye, 
Roused  the  stern  spirit  of  despair— to  die  1 


Ah  I   gallant  exile !    in  the  storm  that 

lolled 

Far  o'er  his  country,  rusning  uncontrolled; 
The  flowers  that  graced  his  path  with  love- 
liest bloom,  [tomb ! 
Torn  by  the  blast — were  scattered  on  the 
When  carnage  burst,  exulting  in  the  strife, 
The  bosom  ties  that  bound  his  soul  to  life ; 
Yet  one  was  spared  1  and  she,  whose  filial 
smile,                                    [beguile, 
Can  soothe  his  wanderings  and  his  tears 
E'en  then,  could  temper,  with  divine  relief, 
The  wild  delirium  of  unbounded  grief ; 
And  whispering  peace  conceal,  with  dute- 
ous art, 

Her  own  deep  sorrows  in  her  inmost  heart ; 
And  now,  though  time,  subduing  every 

trace, 

Has  mellowed  all,  he  never  can  erase  ; 
Oft  will  the  wanderer's  tears  in  silence  flow. 
Still  sadly  faithful  to -remembered  woe  1 
Then  she,  who  feels  a  father's  pang  alone 
(Still  fondly  struggling  to  suppress  her  own) 
With  anxious  tenderness  is  ever  nigh, 
To  chase  the  image  that  awakes  the  sigh  ; 
Her  angel  voice  his  fainting  soul  can  raise 
To  brighter  visiqns  of  celestial  days ! 
And  speak  of  realms  where  virtue's  wing 

shall  soar 

On  eagle  plume— to  wonder  and  adore. 
And  friends,  divided  here,  shall  meet  at  last, 
Unite  their  kindred  souls— and  smile  on  all 
the  past. 

Yes,  we  may  hope  that  nature's  deathless 
ties,  [skies  I 

Renewed,  refined — shall   triumph  in  the 

Heart-soothing  thought  1  whose  loved  con- 
soling" power, 

With  seraph-dreams  can  gild  reflection's 
hour; 

Oh.!  still  be  near,  and  brightening  through 
the  gloom, 

Beam  and  ascend,  the  day-star  of  the  tomb  I 

And  smile  for  those,  in  sternest  ordeals 
proved, 

Those  looely  hearts,  bereft  of  all  they  loved  I 

Lo  I  by  the  couch,  where  pain  and  chill 

disease, 

In  every  vein  the  ebbing  life-blood  freeze ; 
Where  youth  is  taught,  by  stealing  slow 

decay, 

Life's  closing  lesson— in  its  dawning  day ; 
Where  beauty's  rose  is  withering  are  its 


prime, 
cha 


Unchanged  by  sorrow  -and  unsoiled  by 
time; 


THE  DOMESTIC  AFFECTIONS. 


There,  bending  still,  with  fixed  and  sleep- 
less eye, 

Tbere,  from  her  child,  the  mother  learns — 
to  die ;  [trace 

Explores,  with  fearful  gaze,  each  mournful 

Of  lingering  sickness  in  the  faded  face ; 

Through  the  sad  night  when  every  hope  is 
fled, 

Keeps  her  lone  vigil  by  the  sufferer's  bed  ; 

And  starts  each  morn  as  deeper  marks  de- 
clare [there. 

The  spoiler's  hand— the  blight  of  death  is 

He  comes  I  now  feebly  in  th'  exhausted 
frame,  [flame ; 

Slow,  languid,  quivering,  bums  the  vital 

From  the  glazed  eyeball  sheds  its  parting 
ray,  [away  I 

Dim,  transient  spark,  that  fluttering  fades 

Faint  beats  the  hovering  pulse,  the  trem- 
bling heart, 

Yet  fond  existence  lingers— ere  she  pan  i 

Tis  past  I  the  struggle  and  the  pang  are 

o'er, 

And  life  shall  throb  with  agony  no  more ! 
While  o'er  the  wasted  form,  the  features 

pale,  [veil ! 

Death's  awful  shadows  throw  their  silvery 
Departed  spirit !  on  this  earthly  sphere, 
Though  poignant  suffering   marked   thy 

short  career, 

Still  could  maternal  love  beguile  thy  woes, 
And  bush  thy  sighs — an  angel  of  repose 

But  who  may  charm  fur  sleepless  pang 

to  rest,  [breast  ? 

Or  draw  the  thorn  that  rankles  in  her 

And  while  she  bends  in  silence  o'er  thy 

bier, 

Assuage  the  grief,  too  heart-sick  for  a  tear  ? 
Visions  of  hope  I  in  loveliest  hues  arrayed, 
Fair  scenes  of  bliss !  by  Fancy's  hand  por- 
trayed, [smile, 
And  were  ye  doomed,  with  false,  illusive 
With  flattering  promise,  to  enchant  awhile" 
And  are  ye  vanished,  never  to  return, 
Set  in  the  darkness  of  the  mouldering  um 
Will  no  bright  hour  departed  joys  restore 
Shall  the  sad  parent  meet  her  child  no 

more; 

Behold  no  more  the  soul-illumined  face, 
Th'  expressive  smile,  the  animated  grace? 
Must  the  fair  blossom,  withered  in  the 

tomb, 

Revive  no  more  in  loveliness  and  bloom  ? 
Descend,  blest  Faith  1  dispel  the  hopeless 
care,  [spair 

And  chase  the  gathering  phantoms  of  de 


Tell  that  the  flower  transplanted  in  IU 

morn, 

Snjoys  bright  Eden,  freed  from  every  thorn ; 
Expands  to  milder  suns,  and  softer  dews, 
The  full  perfection  of  immortal  hues  t 
Tell  that  when  mounting  to  her  native 

skies, 

By  death  released,  the  parent-spirit  flies ; 
There  shall  the  child,  in  anguish  mourned 

so  long  [throng ; 

With  rapture  hail  her,  'midst  the  cherub 
And  guide  her  pinion,  on  exulting  flight, 
Through  glory's   boundless  realms,  antf 

worlds  of  living  light ! 

Ye  gentle  spirits  of  departed  friends  I 
If  e'er  on  earth  your  buoyant  wing  de 

scends ; 

If  with  benignant  care,  ye  linger  near, 
To  guard  the  objects  in  existence  dear  ; 
If  hovering  o'er,  ethereal  band  !  ye  view 
The  tender  sorrows,  to  your  memory  true  ; 
Oh  !  in  the  musing  hour,  at  midnight  deep, 
While  for  your  loss  Affection  wakes  to  weep; 
While  every  sound  in  hallowed  stillness 

lies, 

But  the  low  murmur  of  her  plaintive  sighs  ; 
Oh  !  then,  amidst  that  holy  calm,  be  near, 
Breathe  your  light  whisper  softly  in  her  ear  t 
With  secret  spells  her  wounded  mjnd  com- 
pose ;  [flows ; 
And  chase  the  faithful  tear — for  you  that 
Be  near  I    when   moonlight   spreads  the 
charm  you  loved,              [step  roved  • 
O'er  scenes  where  once  your  earthly  foot- 
Then,  while  she  wanders  o'er  the  sparkling 
dew,                              [deared  by  you, 
Through  glens,  and  wood-paths,  once  en- 
And    fondly   lingers,    in    your    favourite 

bowers, 

And  pauses  oft,  recalling  former  hours ; 
Then  wave  your  pinion  o'er  each  well- 
known  vale, 

Float  in  the  moonbeam,  sigh  upon  the  gale . 
Bid  your  wild  symphonies  remotely  swell, 
Borne  by  the  summer-wind,  from  grot  ant 

dell; 
And  touch  your  viewless  harps,  and  soothf. 

her  soul, 

With  soft  enchantments  and  divine  control  I 
Be  near  1    sweet   guardians  I    watch   ha 

sacred  rest, 

When  slumber  folds  her  in  his  magic  vest 
Around  her,  smiling,  let  your  forms  arise, 
Returned  in  dreams,  to  bless  her  mental 

eyes; 

Efface  the  memory  of  your  last  farewell, 
Of  glowing  joys,  of  radiant  prospects,  tell ; 


WAS  AND  PEACE. 


85 


The  sweet  communion  of  the  past,  renew, 
Reviving  former  scenes,  arrayed  in  softer 
hue. 

Be  near,  when  death,  in  virtue's  brightest 
hour.  [power ; 

Calls  up  each  pang,  and  summoas  all  his 

Oh  1  then,  transcending  Fancy's  loveliest 
dream. 

Then  let  your  forms,  unveiled,  around  her 
beam; 

Then  waft  the  visions  of  unclouded  light, 

A  burst  of  glory;  on  her  closing  sight ! 

Wake  from  the  harp  of  heaven  the  immor- 
tal strain, 

To  hush  the  final  agonies  of  pain  ; 

With  rapture's  flame,  the  parting  soul 
illume, 

And  smile  triumphant  through  the  shadowy 
gloom. 

Oh !  still  be  near,  when  darting  into  day, 
Th'  exulting  spirit  leaves  her  bonds  of  clay, 


Be  yours  to  guide  her  fluttering  wing  on 

high, 

O'er  many  a  world,  ascending  to  the  sky , 
There  let  your  presence,  once  her  earthly 

joy,  [with  alloy; 

Though  dimmed  with  tears,  and  clouded 
Now  form  her  bliss  on  that  celestial  shore, 
Where  death  shall  sever  kindred  hearts  no 

more. 

Yes !  in  the  noon  of  that  Elysian  clime, 
Beyond  the  sphere  of  anguish,  death,  or 

time ;  [fire. 

Where  mind's  bright  eye,  with  renovated 
Shall  beam  on  glories — never  to  expire ; 
Oh  I  there,  th'  illumined  soul  may  fondly 

trust,  [dust ; 

More  pure,  more  perfect,  rising  from  the 
Those  mild  affections  whose  consoling  light 
Sheds  the  soft  moonbeam  on  terrestrial 

night ; 

Sublimed,  ennobled,  shall  for  ever  glow, 
Exalting  rapture— not  assuaging  woe. 


WAR  AND  PEACE.     1808. 


THOU,  bright   Futurity,   whose   prospect 

beams,  [dreams ; 

In  dawning  radiance  on  our  daylight 
Whose  lambent  meteors  and  ethereal  forms, 
Gild  the  dark  clouds,  and  glitter  through 

the  storms ;        ^ 

On  thy  broad  canvas  fancy  loves  to  trace 
Her  brilliant  Iris,  drest  in  vivid  grace ; 
Paints  fair  creations  in  celestial  dyes, 
Tints  of  the  morn  and  blushes  of  the  skies ; 
And   bids   ner  scenes   perfection's   robe 

assume,  [bloom. 

The  mingling  flush  of  light,  and  life,  and 
Thou  bright  Futurity,  whose  morning-star 
Still  beams  unveiled,  unclouded  from  afar ; 
Whose  lovely  vista  smiling  Hope  surveys, 
Through  the  dim  twilight  of  the  silvery  haze ; 
Oh  I  let  the  muse  expand  her  wing  on  high, 
Thy  shadowy  realms,  thy  worlds  unknown 

descry  1 

Let  her  clear  eyebeam,  flashing  lucid  light, 
Chase  from  thy  forms  th'  involving  shades 

of  night,  [tide  rays, 

Pierce  the  dark  clouds  that  veil  thy  noon- 
And  soar,  exulting,  in  meridian  blaze 
In  bliss,  in  grief,  thy  radiant  scenes  bestow, 
Fhe  zest  of  rapture,  or  the  balm  of  woe  ; 
For,  as  the  sunflower  to  her  idol  turns, 
Glows  in  his  noon,  and  kindles  as  he  burns ; 


Expands  her  bosom  to  th'  exalting  flre, 
Lives  but  to  gaze,  and  gazes  to  admire ; 
E'en  so  to  thee,  the  mind  incessant  flies, 
From  thy  pure  source  the  fount  of  joy 
supplies ,  [tnrows 

And  steals  from  thee  the  sunny  light  that 
A  brighter  blush  on  pleasure's  bving  rose  1 
To  thee  pale  sorrow  turns  her  eye  of  tears, 
Lifts  the  dim  curtain  of  unmeasured  years ; 
And  hails  thy  promised  land,  th'  Elysian 

shore. 

Where  weeping  virtue  shall  bewail  no  more  1 

[assail, 

Now,  while  the  sounds  of  martial  wrath 
While  the  red  banner  floats  upon  the 
gale ;  [bands, 

While  dark  destruction,  with  his  legion- 
Waves  the  bright  sabre  o'er  devoted 
lands ,  [the  air, 

While  War's  dread  comet  flashes  through 
And  fainting  nations  tremble  at  the  glare ; 
To  thee  Futurity  from  scenes  like  these, 
Pale  tancy  turns,  for  heaven-imparted 

ease; 

Turns  to  behold,  in  thy  unclouded  skies 
The  orb  of  peace  in  bright  perspective 

rise; 

And  pour  around,  with  joy-diffusing  ray 
Life  light,  and  glory,  hi  a  flood  of  day. 


3t» 


WAR  AND  PEACE. 


Thou,  whose  loved  presence  and  benignant 
smile  [isle ; 

Has  beamed  effulgence  en  this  favoured 
Thou !  the  fair  seraph,  in  immortal  state, 
Throned  on  the  rainbow,   heaven's  em- 
blazoned gate ;  [breeze 
Thou,  whose  mild  whispers  in  the  summer 
Control  the  storm,  and  undulate  the  seas, 
Spirit  of  mercy  I  oh,  return,  to  bring 
Palm  in  thy  wreath,  and  "healing  on  thy 

wing  1" 

Compose  each  passion  to  th'  eternai  will, 
Say  to  the  hurricane  of  war, — "  Be  still," 
"  Vengeance,  expire ;  thy  reign,  ambition, 
cease ;  [peace." 

Beam,  light  of  heaven,  triumphant  star  of 

Is  this  the  muse's  wild,  illusive  dream, 

An  airy  picture,  an  ideal  theme? 

Shall  death  still  ride  victorious  o'er  the 

slain,  [plain  ? 

And  his  "pale  charger"  desolate  the 
Ne'er  shall  revenge  .her  vulture-pinion 

fold,  [withhold? 

Close,  her  dark  eye,  her  lightning-arm 

Still  must  oppression  cause  th'  eternal  strife, 
And  breathe  dire  mildew  o'er  the  blooms  of 

life? 

Must  war  still  ravage  with  his  car  of  fire, 
And  victim  myriads  in  the  blare  expire  ? 

Supernal  Power  1  on  suffering  earth  look 

down, 

Tyrannic  might  shall  perish  in  thy  frown, 
Oh  1  deign  to  speed  that  blest,  appointed 

tune,  [every  clime  I 

When  peace  and  faith  shall  smile  on 
But  first  in  clouds,  the  dark,  eventful  day, 
Oh,  wrath,  avenging  wrath  1  must  roll 

away !  [must  wave, 

Thy  sword,  oh,  Justice !  o'er  the  world 
Ere  Mercy  dawn,  to  triumph  and  to  save. 

Shades  of  the  prophet-bards !  majestic  train, 
Who  seized  the  harp  from  Inspiration's  fane, 
And,  fired  and  guided  by  divine  control, 
Woke  every  chord  to  rapture  and  to  soul  I 
Shades  of  the  prophet-bards  1  in  days  of  old. 
Whose  gifted  hands  the  leaf  of  fate  unrolled ; 
Whose  prescient  eyes  undimmed  by  age  or 

tears, 

Explored  the  avenue  of  distant  years ; 
Did  those  blest  eyes  th'  enchanted  scene 

survey 

Of  smiling  concord's  universal  sway? 
And  did  your  hearts  with  joy  exulting  burn. 
To  see  her  Paradise  on  earth  return? 


Yes  1  hallowed  seers  l  to  you.  the  bliss  was . 

given,  [heaven  1 

To  read  unveiled,  the  dread  decrees  ol 
You  saw  th'  oppressor's  might  in  judgment 

hurled, 

A  storm  of  vengeance  on  the  guilty  world  I 
Beheld  his  throne  reversed,  his  empire  past, 
And  peace  and  joy  descend,  serene,  at  last. 

So  when  impetuous  winds  forget  to  rave, 
And  sunset  radiance  trembles  o'er  the 
wave :  [deep, 

Sweet  Eve  advancing  o'er  the  summer- 
Charms  every  billow,  every  breeze  to  sleep. 

Dawn,  age  of  bliss  t  but  ere  thy  morn  shall 

rise, 

And  waft  a  chain  of  cherubs  from  the  skies ; 
The  foes  of  man,  who  mark  their  deathful 
way,  [dismay : 

With  tears  of  blood,  and  earthquakes  of 
These,  these  must  fall,  a  desolating  band, 
Fall  by  the  darts,  in  Retribution's  band  ; 
And  tyrants  vanquished,  humbled  in  the 
dust,  fjust  I 

Kneel  at  her  shrine,  and  own  the  sentence 
Then  wave,  oh,  Albion  I  wave  thy  sword 

again, 

Call  thy  brave  champions  to  the  battle  plain  I 
Rise,  might  of  nations  !  ardent  to  oppose 
The  rushing  torrent  of  unpitying  foes ! 
Soon  shall  they  own  that  freedom's  cause 

inspires, 

Undaunted  spirit  and  resistless  fires  ! 
Rise!  all  combined,  "in  arms,  in  heart," 

the  same," 

The  arms  of  honour  and  the  heart  of  flame, 
Nor  check  th'  avenging  sword,  the  patriot- 
spear, 

Till  stern  Ambition  falls,  in  mid  career  ! 
Then  let  the  falchion  ,  sleep,  the  combat 

cease, 

The  sun  of  conquest  light  the  path  of  peace, 
Let  the  green  laurel  with  the  palm  entwine, 
And  rear  on  trophies  bright,  her  firm,  eter- 
nal shrine. 

Dawn,  age  of  bliss  !  the  wounds  of  discord 

close, 

Furl  the  red  standard,  bid  the  sword  repose, 
Then  o'er  the  globe  let  worshipped  freedom 

smile, 

Bright  as  in  Albion's  truth-illumined  isle  ! 
Her  Grecian  temple  rear  on  every  shore, 
Where  every  knee  shall  bend  and  heart 

adore  I 

Queen  of  thevaliant  arm,  the  warrior-breast 
Light  of  the  ocean  I  day-star  of  the  west : 


WAR  AND  PEACE. 


Oh  f  Albion,  Liberty's  immortal  fane, 
Empressiof  isles  !  palladium  of  the  main! 
Though  thy  loud  thunders  through  the 

world  resound,  [round, 

Though  thy  red  lightnings  flash  victorious 
Though  nations  own,  in  many  a  distant 

clime, 

Thy  arm  triumphant,  as  thy  name  sublime; 
Rock  of  the  waves  1  though  proud,  from 

zone  to  zone 

Extend  the  pillars  of  thy  naval  throne ; 
Around  thy  coast  though  wild  destruction 

roars,  [shores ; 

Yet  calm  and  fertile  smile  thy  favoured 
In  emerald  verdure  blooms  thy  sunny  plain, 
And  the  dark  war-blast  rolls  without — in 

vain !  [eye, 

Though  flames  of  valour,  kindling  in  thine 
Brave  every  storm,  and  every  foe  defy  ; 
Yet  soft  beneath,  its  milder  beam,  serene, 
Luxuriance  blossoms  o'er  the  glowing  scene; 
Fair  laugh  thy  vales,  no  deathful  sounds 

assail,  [gale ; 

Mirth  warbles  free,  and  music  swells  the 
While  firm  in  might,  thy  victor-arnrextends, 
Death  to  thy  foes,  and  succour  to  thy 

friends  ! 

Thus  potent  Prospero's  creative  spell 
Bade  the  wild  surge  in  mountain  fury  swell ; 
Called  up  the  spirits  of  the  raging  deep, 
Aroused  the  whirlwind,  o'er  the  waves  to 

sweep ; 

But  on  th'  enchanted  isle,  his  fair  domain, 
Raised  the  bright  vision  of  the  sylphid  train ; 
And  bade  soft  notes,  and  fairy-warbled  airs, 
Melt  o'er  the  sense,  and  lull  corroding  cares. 

Yet,  Queen  of  Isles,  though  peace,  with 

angel-form, 

Smile  on  thy  cliffs,  regardless  of  the  storm  ; 
Favoured  of  heaven  I  e'en  thou,  though 

distant  far, 

Hast  wept  the  horrors  of  relentless  war  ; 
E'en  thou  hast  mourned  o'er  many  a  hero's 
bier,  [tear, 

Graced  with  thy  laurels,  hallowed  with  thy 
For  those  whose  arms,  whose  blood  pre- 
served thee  free  [thee  ?) 
(Who  would  not  bleed,  O  peerless  isle  I  for 
For  those  who,  falling  on  their  subject  wave, 
Made  the  dark  billow  glory's  proudest  grave ; 
How  oft  has  anguish  taught  thy  tears  to  flow, 
Thy  sighs,  despondence — and  thine  accents, 
woel 

Yes,  thou  hast  mourned  the  brave,  illustrious 

dead, 
Martyrs  for  thee,  by  faith  and  valour  led  ; 


When  he,  the  warrior  of  the  patriot  glow, 
Whose  ebbing  life-blood  stained  Canadian 

snow  ; 

When  thy  own  Wolfe,  by  all  thy  spirit  fired, 
Triumphant  fought,  exulted,  and  expired  ; 
Gave  to  thy  fame  the  last,  the  lingering 

breath, 

The  joy  in  agony,  the  smile  in  death, 
How  swelled  thy  heart,  with  blended  feel- 
ing's tide,  [pride, 
How  sorrow  paled  the  kindling  cheek  oi 
And  the  bright  garland  purchased  by  his 
doom,                                      [bloom ! 
Seemed  half-despoiled,  and  withering  in  its 

Yes,  when  thy  Nelson,  matchless  in  the 

fight. 

Bade  nations  own  thee  of  resistless  might ; 
And  pouring  on  their  he.ads  destruction's 

flame, 

Closed  in  its  dreadful  blaze  a  life  of  fame  ; 
When  the  red  star  of  conquest  and  of  power 
Beamed  in  full  zenith  on  his  parting  hour  ; 
Dispersed  the  shadows  of  surrounding 

gloom, 

And  shed  meridian  lustre— on  his  tomb  ; 
Then  the  sad  tears  which  mourned  thy 

gallant  son,  [won ; 

Dimmed  the  fair  trophies  by  his  prowess 
Then  patriot-sighs  and  consecrated  grief, 
Embalmed  the  memory  of  the  undaunted 

chief: 

Pale,  weeping  victory  tore  her  laurel  crown, 
And  tuned  to  sorrow's  dirge  the  clarion  oi 

renown. 

And  thou,  firm  leader  of  the  intrepid  host, 
Which  braved  each  peril  on  Iberia's  coast, 
Thy  name,  oh,  Moore,  through  long,  suc- 
ceeding years, 

Shall  claim  the  tribute  of  thy  country's  tears; 
Oh,  firm  in  faith,  in  countless  dangers 

proved, 

In  spirit  lofty,  and  by  death  unmoved  I 
Thine  was  the  towering  soul,  disdaining 

fear, 

Andyfcte/  valour  closed  thy  bright  career. 
Illustrious  Leader  I  in  that  hour  of  fate, 
When  hope  and  terror  near  the  sufferer  wait ; 
When  the   pale   cheek   and  fading  eye 
proclaim  [frame; 

The  last  long  struggle  of  the  trembling 
When  the  fierce  death-pang  vibrates  every 

sense, 

And  fainting  nature  shudders  in  suspense ; 
E'en  then  thy  bosom  felt  the  patriot-flame, 
Still  beat  the  quivering  pulse  at  Albion's 
name. 


38 


WAR  AND  PEACE. 


In  that  dread  hoar  thy  thoughts  to  Albion  j 

flew, 
Thy  parting  thrill  of  life,  thy  latest  throb 

was  true  1 

Illustrious  Leader  1  on  that  awful  day, 
When  war  and  horror  frowned  in  dark]array; 
When  vengeance  waved  her  fire-flag  o'er 

the  slain, 

And  carnage  hovered  o'er  Corunna's  plain; 
Faint  with  fatigue  and  streaming  with  their 

blood, 

How  nobly  firm  thy  hand  of  heroes  stood. 
Twas  theirs  unmoved,  unconquered,    to 
oppose  [foes ; 

Pain,    famine,   danger,    and   unnumbered 
Nor  toil,  nor  want,  nor  sickness  then  sub- 
dued, 

The  "  Lion-heart "  of  British  fortitude ; 
E'en  then  those  humbled  foes  their  might 
deplored,  [tannia's  sword  ; 

And  owned  that  conquest  waved  Bri- 
E'en  then  they  fought,  intrepid,  undismayed, 
Death  ia  their  charge  and  lightning  on 

their  blade  I 

Yes,  warrior  band,  by  noblest  ardour  led, 
True  to  the  last,  ye  triumphed  while  ye 

bled; 

'Serene  in  pain,  exulting  'midst  alarms, 
Bold,  firm,  invincible,  your  matchless  arms ; 
Then  Freedom  reared  her  victor-flag  on 
high,  [every  eye ; 

Glowed  in  each  heart  and  flashed  from 
England  I  thy  glory  every  bosom  swelled, 
England  I  thy  spirit  every  arm  impelled  ; 
MOORE,  thy  bright  sun  in  fame,  in  victory 
set,  [with  regret  I 

Though  dimmed  with  tears,  though  clouded 
Yet  shall    thy  trophies    rear,    to  distant 
time,  [sublime. 

High  on  thy   native    shore    a    cenotaph 
But,  ah  I  bold  Victory  I  can  thy  festal  train, 
Thy  purple  streamers,  or  thy  choral  strain 
Can  thy  proud  spear,  in  wreaths  immorta 

drest, 

Thy  radiant  panoply,  thy  wavy  crest ; 
Can  these  one   grief,  one   bosom    pang 

beguile, 

Or  teach  despair  one  heart  reviving  smile 
Tint  the  pale  cheek  with  pleasure's  man- 
tling hue, 

Light  the  dim  eye  with  joy  and  lustre  new 
Or  check  one  sigh,  one  sad,  yet  fruitless 
tear.  [bier? 

Fond  love  devotes  to  martyred  valour's 
Lo  !  where,  with  pallid  look  and  supplian 
hands,  [stands 

New  the  cold  urn  tb'   imploring  mother 


Fixed  is  her  eye,  her  anguish  cannot  weep, 
["here  all  her  hopes  with  youthful  virtue 
sleep  1  [displayed 

There  sleeps  the  son,  whose  opening  years  j 
Lach  flattering  promise,  doomed  so  soon  to 

fade. 

Too  brave,  too  ardent,  on  the  field  he  fell, 
'ame  hovered  near,  and  Conquest  rung 
his  knell.  [breast, 

Jut  could  their  pomp  console  her  wounded 
Dispel  one  sigh,  or  lull  one  care  to  rest  ? 
Ah,  suffering  Parent,  fated  still  to  mourn, 
Ah,  wounded  heart, — he  never  ska  It  return, 

fte  fell  i  that  eye  of  soft  and  varying  ray, 
Where  warm  expression  kindled  into  day, 
Where  ardour  sparkled,  where  affection 

beamed,  [streamed ; 

And    youth    and    hope    in    living    lustre 
That  voice  beloved,  whose  bliss-imparting 

tone,  [own ; 

Bade  her  fond   heart  its  thrilling  magic 
That  mantling    cheek,    where    animation 

glowed,  [bestowed ; 

Spread  the  rich  bloom,    the  vivid   flush 
That  brilliant  eye  is  closed  in  shades  ol 

night,  [bright  I 

That  voice  is  hushed,  that  cheek  no  longer 
'Twas  hers  when  hope  one   meteor-beam 

had  given,  [heaven  !{ 

(Fair  form  .of  light !  sweet  fugitive  of 
To  see  dark  clouds  obscure  the  rainbow- 
dream,  [gleam ; 
Watch  its  pale  sunset,  and  its  closing 
To  see  the  last,  the  lingering  bliss  depart, 
The  lonely  Day-star  of  her  widowed  heart  J 
He  fell  I— her  woe,  her  soul-consuming 

grief 

Mourns  in  no  language,  seeks  for  no  relief ; 
Forbids  the  mind  in  sympathy  to  glow, 
The  voice  to  murmur,  and  the  tear  to  flow  ; 
But  deep  within,  enshrined  in  silent  sway, 
Dwells  on  each  nerve — and  wither*    life 

away. 

Or  see  yon  Orphan  maid,  in  beauty's  bloom. 
Fair  lovely  mourner  o'er  a  Father's  tomb  ; 
For  him,  far  distant  on  the  battle  plain, 
She  prayed,  and  wished,  and  wept — alas ! — 

in  vain  ;  [breath, 

No    tender    friend    received    his   parting 
No  filial  sweetness  cheered  the  hour  oi 

death —  [share 

For,  ah  !  when  nature  most  demands  to 
The  smile  of  tenderness,  the  hand  of  care, 
E'en  then,  deserted  on  the  field,  he  bled  ; 
Unknown,    unmarked,  his   gallant  spirit 

fled; 


WAR  AND  PEACE. 


'  Lo  I  where  she  weeps  forlorn,  in  anguish 

lost, 

A  frail  mimosa,  blighted  by  the  frost ; 
Who  now  shall  guard  the  blossom  of  her 

youth, 

The  gem  of  innocence,  the  flower  of  truth  ? 
Sweet  hapless  maid,  thy  only  friend  is 

gone, 
Hope    lingering  -smiles,    and    points  to 

heaven  alone. 

Ah.  who  can  tell  the  thousands  doomed  to 

moan,  [known? 

Condemned  by  war,  to  hopeless  grief  un- 
Thou,  laureate  Victor  I  when  thy  blazoned 

shield,  [field ; 

Wears  the  proud  emblems  of  the  conquered 
When  trophies  glitter  on  thy  radiant  car, 
And  thronging  myriads  hail  thee  from  afar  : 
When  praise  attunes  her  spirit-breathing 

lyre,  [fire ; 

Swells  every  tone,  wakes  every  chord  of 
Then  could  thine  eyes  each  drooping 

mourner  see,  [thee  ; 

Behold  each  hopeless  anguish,  caused  by 
Hear,  for  each  measure  of  the  votive  strain, 
The  rending  sigh  that  murmurs  o'er  the 

slain ;  [wave. 

See,  for  each  banner  fame  and  victory 
Some  sufferer  bending  o'er  a  soldier's  grave ; 
How  would  that  scene,  with  grief  and 

horror  fraught,  [ing  thought ! 

Chill  the  warm  glow,  and  check  th'  exult- 
E'en  in  that  hour,  that  gay,  triumphal 

hour,  [power ; 

'Midst  the  bright  pageants  of  applause  and 
When  at  thy  name  th'  adoring  paeans  rise, 
And  waft  thy  deeds  in  incense  to  the  skies  ; 
Fame  in  thine  eyes  would  veil  her  towering 

plume, 
AndVictory's  laurels  lose  their  fairest  bloom. 

Power  of  the  ruthless  arm,  the  deathful 
spear, 

Unmoved,  unpitying,  in  thy  dread  career ; 

Whom  no  sad  cries,  no  mournful  scenes 
impede, 

Melt  thy  proud  heart,  and  curb  thy  light- 
ning speed ; 

Around  whose  throne  malignant  spirits 
wait, 

Whose  path  is  ruin,  and  whose  arm  is  fate  ! 

Stern,  dark  Ambition  I  Typhon  of  the 
world  1  [burled  I 

Thine  are  the  darts,  o'er  man  in  vengeance 

'Tis  thine,  where  nature  smiles  with  young 
delight,  [blight ; 

With  fiery  wing,  to  spread  Oppression's 


To  blast  the  realms  with  rich  profusion 

crowned. 

Like  the  dire  Upas,  tainting'all  around  >! 
Thus  o'er  the  southern  climes,  luxuriant 
lands,  [expands ; 

Where  spreads  the  olive,  where  the  vine 
The  dread  volcano  bids  the  torrent  sweep, 
Rolls  the  fierce  lava  burning  down  ,the 

steep ; 

Life,  beauty,  verdure,  fated  to  destroy, 
Blast  every  bloom,  and  wither  every  joy ! 
Sweet  orange  groves,  with  fruit  and  blos- 
soms fair,  [air ; 
Which  breathed  the  soul  of  fragrance  on  the 
Vineyards  that  blushed,  with  mantling  clus- 
ters graced 
Gay  domes,  erected  by  the  hand  of  taste ; 
These  mingled  all  in  one  resistless  fire, 
Flame  to  the  skies,  fairNature's  funeral  pyre. 

Ambition !   vainly  wouldst  thou  gild  thy 

name, 

With  spacious  rays  of  conquest  and  of  fame; 
Truth  waves  her  wand !  from  her  all-piercing 

eye, 

From  her  Ithuriel-spear,  thy  glories  fly  1 
In  vain  to  thee  may  suppliant  mercy  kneel, 
Plead  with  soft  voice,  and  deprecate  the 

steel ! 

Look  up,  with  seraph-eye,  in  tears  benign. 
Smile  through  each  tear,  with  eloquence 

divine . 

In  vain  implore  thee  to  relent  and  spare, 
With    cherub-mien    and    soul-dissolving 

prayer : 

Lost  are  those  accents  of  melodious  charms. 
'Midst  the  loud  clangour  of  surrounding 

arms; 

Thy  heart  of  adamant  repels  the  strain, 
Mercy !  thy  prayer,  thy  tear,  thy  hope,  is 


But  can  remorse,  despotic  power !  prevail, 
And  wound  thy  bosom  through  the  "twisted 

mail?"  [science  felt, 

Say,   can  his  frown,  by  shuddering  con- 
Pierce  the  dark  soul  which  mercy  cannot 

melt  ?  [way, 

No,  tyrant !  no,  when  conquest  points  thy 
And, lights-  thy  track— the  blood-path  of 

dismay ; 
E'en  then  his  darts,  though  barbed  with 

fiery  pain,  [disdain. 

Fall  from  thy  woundless  heart,  averted  by 

Power  of  the  ruthless  arm,  we  see  thy  form, 
Tower  midst  the  darkness  of  the  gathering 
storm; 


40 


WAR  AND  PEACE. 


We  see  thy  sabre  with  portentous  blaze. 
Flash  o'er  tb«  nations,  trembling  as  they 

gaze ; 

And  lo!  we  hear  thine  awful  voice  resound, 
While  fear  and  wonder  faint,  through  em- 
pires round !  [power ! 
"  Realms  of  the  globe,  submit !  adore  my 
Mine  the  red  falchion,  practised  to  devour! 
Mine,  dark  destruction's  torch  of  lurid  light, 
Mine,  her  keen  scimitar's  resistless  might  I 
Chiefs !  patriots  1  heroes  !  kneeling  at  my 
shrine,  [resign ! 
Your  arms,  your  laurels,  and  your  fame, 
Bend,  ye  proud  isles !  my  dread  behest 
obey  1  [swa.y  I 
Yield,  prostrate  nations !  and  confess  my 
Lo!  thebright  ensigns  of  supreme  command, 
Flame  on  my  brow,  and  glitter  in  my  hand  I 
Lo !  at  my  throne  what  vanquished  myriads 

wait, 

My  look,  decision !  and  my  sceptre,  fate  ! 
Ye  lands,  ye  monarchs  1  bow  the  vassal- 
knee  ! 

World,  thou  art  mine !  and  I  alone  am  free ; 
For  who  shall  dare,  with  dauntless  heart 
advance,  [lance !" 

Rouse  my  dread  arm,  and  brave  my  potent 
Relentless  power !  thy  deeds  from  age  to 

age, 

Stain  the  fair 'annals  of  th"  impartial  page! 
O'er  the  mild  beam  of  order,  silvery  bright, 
Long  have  thy  votaries  poured  the  clouds 
of  night,  [plenty  smiled, 

And  changed  the  loveliest  realms,  where 
To  the  lone  desert  and  abandoned  wild  I 

Ye  western  regions  of  a  brighter  zone, 
Ye  lands  that  bowed  at  Montezuma's  throne, 
Where  vivid  nature  wears  the  richest  dyes, 
Matured  to  glory  by  exulting  skies  ; 
Scenes  of  luxuriance  1  o'er  your  blooming 

pride, 

How  ruin  swept  the  desolating  tide  I 
When  the  fierce  Cortes  poured  his  faithless 

train, 

O'er  the  gay  treasures  of  your  fervid  reign ; 
Taught  the  pure   streams   with  crimson 

stains  to  flow, 

Made  the  rich  vales  a  wilderness  of  woe  ! 
And  swelled  each  breeze  of  soft  ambrosial 

air, 
With  cries  of  death  and  murmurs  of  despair. 

Peruvian  realms  1  where  wealth  resplendent 
shines,  [mines ; 

Throned  in  full  glory,  'midst  your  diamond 

Where  vegetation  spreads  her  brightest 
hues,  [dews ; 

Nursed  by  soft  airs,  and  balm-descending 


Where  all  his  beams,  the  worshipped  sun 

bestows, 

And  Flora's  empire  to  perfection  glows  ; 
O'er  your  gay  plains,  Ambition  spreads 

alarms,  [arms, 

When  stern  Pizarro  rushed  with  conquering 
Despoiled  your  wealth,  and  ravaged  all  your 

charms  ! 

Ferocious  leader!  his  aspirirjg  soul, 
Nor  fear  could  tame,  nor  social  ties  control  I 
Ardent  and  firm,  in  countless  dangers  bold. 
Dark — savage— fierce — to  faith,  to  mercy — 

cold. 

Then  was  the  sword  to  dire  oppression 
given,  [heaven  I 

Her  vulture-wing   obscured  the  light   ol 
Through  many  a  plantain  shade,  and  cedar 
grove,  [love ; 

Where  the  blest  Indian  carolled  joy  and 
The  war-note  swelled  upon  the  zephyr's 
calm,  [of  palm  ! 

The  wood-nymph,  Peace,  forsook  her  bowers 
And  Freedom  fled,  to  Andes'  heights  un- 
known, 

Majestic  Solitude's  primeval  throne  ! 
Where  Echo  sleeps,  in  loneliness  profound, 
Hears  not  a  step,  nor  quivers  at  a  sound  1 
Yet  there  the  genius  of  eternal  snows, 
Marked  far  beneath  a  scene  of  death  dis- 
close ! 

Saw  the  red  combat  raging  on  the  plain, 
Heard  the  deep  dirge  that  murmured  o'ei 

the  slain  ! 
While  stern  Ambition  waked  th'  exulting 

cry, 

And  waved  his  blazing  torch,  and  meteor 
flag,  on  high. 

Yet,  ah !  not  there,  vindictive  power  I  alone, 
Has  lawless  carnage  reared  thy  towering 

throne ;  [age, 

For  Europe's  polished  realms,  through  every 
Have  mourned  thy  triumphs  and  bewailed 

thy  ragt; !  [land, 

Though  soft  refinement  there,  o'er  every 
Spread  the  mild  empire  of  her  silver  wand  ; 
Erect  supreme,  her  light  Corinthian  fane, 
Tune  the  sweet  lyre,   and  modulate  the 

strain ;  [spar. 

Though  Genius  there,  on  Rapture's  pinions 
And  worlds  of  ether  and  of  fire  explore  ; 
There,  though  Religion  smile  with  seraph 

eye,  [sky, 

And  shed  her  gifts,  like  manna  from  the 
While  Faith  and  Hope,   exulting  in  her 

si£ht, 
Pour  the  full  noon  of  glory's  living  light ; 


WAR  AND  PEACE. 


41 


There  still  Ambition  bids  his  victims  bleed, 
Still  rolls  his  whirlwind,  with  destructive 

speed ! 

Still  in  his  flame,  devoted  realms  consume, 
Fled  is  their  smile  and  withered  is  their 

bloom ! 

With  every  charm  has  Nature's  lavish  hand 
Adorned,  sweet  Italy  1  thy  favoured  land ! 
There  Summer  laughs,  with  glowing  aspect 

fair,  [hail ;" 

Unfolds  her  tints,  and  "  waves  her  golden 
Bids  her  light  sylphs  delicious  airs  convey, 
On  their  soft  pinions,  waving  as  they  play; 
O'er  clustered  grapes  the  lucid  mantle 

throw,  [glow  1 

And  spread  gay  life  in  one  empurpling 
Paint  all  the  rainbow  on  perennial  flowers, 
And  shed  exuberance  o'er  thy  myrtle 

bowers ! 

Verdure  iu  every  shade  thy  woods  display, 
Where  soft  gradations  melt  in  light  away  1 
And  vernal  sweets,  in  rich  profusion  blow,  ' 
E'en  'midst  the  reign  of  solitude  and  snow ; 
Yet  what  avail  the  bright  ambrosial  stores, 
Which  gay  redundance  o'er  thy  region 

pours? 

Devoted  land !  from  long-departed  time, 
The  chosen  theatre  of  war  and  crime ; 
What  though  for  thee  transcendent  suns 

arise, 

The  myrtle  blossoms,  and  the  zephyr  sighs ; 
What  though  for  thee  again  Arcadia 

blooms,  [illumes ; 

And  cloudless  radiance  all  thy  realm 
There  still  has  Rapine  seized  her  yielding 

prey,  [bounded  sway ; 

There  still  Oppressior  spreads  th'  un- 
There  oft  has  War  each  blooming  charm 

effaced, 
And  left  the  glowing  vale  a  bleak,  deserted 

waste 

Is  there  a  land,  where  halcyon  peace  has 

reigned, 

From  age  to  age,  in  glory  unprcfaned  ? 
Has  dwelt  serenely  in  perpetual  rest, 
"Heaven  in  her  eye,"  and  mercy  in  her 

breast, 
Ah,  no  1  from  clime  to  clime,  with  ruthless 

train, 

Has  War  still  ravaged  o'er  the  blasted  plainl 
His  lofty  banner  to  the  winds  unfurled, 
And  swept  the  storm  of  vengeance  o'er  the 

world. 

7et,  oh  I  stem  god  I    if   ever  conscious 

right, 
If  ever  justice  armed  thee  for  the  fight ; 


If  e'er  fair  truth  approved  thy  dread  career, 
Smiled  on  thy  track  and  curbed  thy  dread- 
ful spear ; 

Now  may  the  generous  heart  exulting  see. 
Those  righteous  powers  in  amity  with  thee : 
For  never,  never,  in  a  holier  cause, 
Nor  sanctioned,  e'er  by  purer,  nobler  laws ; 
Has  Albion  seized  the  sabre  and  the  shield, 
Or  rushed  impetuous  to  the  ensanguined 
field. 

Oh  I   when  that  cause  triumphant   shall 

prevail, 

And  Freedom's  foes  her  ark  no  more  assail ; 
Then  might  thy  smile,  sweet  Peace !  thy 

angel-form  [the  storm 

Beam  through  the  clouds,  and  tranquillize 
Lo !  to  the  Muse's  bright  prophetic  eyes, 
What  scenes  unfold,  what  radiant  visions 

rise ; 

See  hand  in  hand,  and  wafted  from  above, 
Celestial  Mercy,  and  angelic  love ! 
Lo  1  from  the  regions  of  the  morning-star, 
Descending  seraphs  bear  their  sun-brighl 

car. 

"  High  the  peaceful  streamers  wave, 
•  Lo  1"  they  sing,  '  we  come  to  save ; 
Come  to  smile  on  every  shore, 
Truth  and  Eden  to  restore ; 
Come,  the  balm  of  joy  to  bring, 
Borne  on  softest  gales  of  spring  ; 
Rapture,  swell  the  choral  voice, 
Favoured  earth,  rejoice,  rejoice. 

"  Now  the  work  of  death  is  o'er, 
Sleep,  thou  sword  I  to  wake  no  more : 
Never  more  Ambition's  hand 

'  Shall  wave  thee  o'er  a  trembling  land, 
Never  more,  in  hopeless  anguish, 
Caused  by  thee,  shall  virtue  languish 
Rapture,  swell  the  choral  voice, 
Favoured  earth,  rejoice,  rejoice. 

"  Cease  to  flow,  then  purple  flood, 
Cease  to  fall,  ye  tears  of  blood  ; 
Swell  no  more  the  clarion's  breath, 
Wake  no  more  the  song  of  death ; 
Rise,  ye  hymns  of  concord,  rise, 
Incense,  worthy  of  the  skies  ; 
Wake  the  paean,  tune  the  voice, 
Favoured  earth,  -ejcice,  rejoice. 

"  Nature,  smile  I  thy  vivid  grace, 
Now  no  more  shall  war  deface ; 
Airs  of  spring,  oh  I  sweetly  breathe, 
Summer  I  twine  thy  fairest  wreatb  ; 


WAR  AND  PEACE. 


Not  the  warrior's  bier  to  spread, 
Not  to  crown  the  victor's  head ; 
But  with  flowers  of  every  hue, 
Love  and  mercy's  path  to  strew; 
Swell  to  heaven  the  choral  voice, 
Favoured  earth,  rejoice,  rejoice. 

"  Sleep,  ambition  !  rage,  expire  I 

Vengeance  I  fold  thy  wing  of  fire ! 

Close  thy  dark  and  lurid  eye, 

Bid  thy  torch,  forsaken,  die ; 

Furl  thy  banner,  waving  proud, 

Dreadful  as  the  thundercloud  ; 

Shall  destruction  blast  the  plain  ? 

Shall  the  falchion  rage  again  ? 

Shall  the  sword  thy  bands  dissever? 

Never,  sweet  Affection  !  never ! 
As  the  halcyon  o'er  the  ocean, 
Lulls  the  billow's  wild  commotion, 
So  we  bid  dissension  cease. 
Bloom,  O  amaranth  of  peace  I 
Twine  the  spear  with  vernal  roses, 
Now  the  reign  of  discord  closes  ; 
Goddess  of  th'  unconquered  isles, 
Freedom  !  triumph  in  our  smiles, 
Blooming  youth,  and  wisdom  hoary 
Bards  of  fame,  and  sons  of  glory ; 
Albion  !  pillar  of  the  main, 
Monarchs,  nations,  join  the  strain ; 
Swell  to  heaven  th'  exulting  voice ; 
Mortals,  triumph  !  earth  rejoice." 

Oh  !  blissful  song,  and  shall  thy  notes  re- 
sound, 

While  joy  and  wonder  bend  entranced 
around  ? 

And  shall  thy  music  float  on  every  breeze, 

Melt  on  the  shores  and  warble  o'er  the  seas  ? 


Oh  !  mercy,  love,  ambassadors  of  heaven. 
And  shall  your  sunshine  to  mankind  bt 

given  ? 

Hope,  is  thy  tale  a  visionary  theme  ? 
Oh  !  smile,  .supernal  power,  and  realize  the 

dream ! 

And  thou,  the  radiant  messenger  of  truth, 
Decked  with  perennial  charms,  unfading 

youth ;  [diffuse 

Oh !  thou,  whose  pinions  as  they  wave, 
All  Hybla's  fragrance  and  all  Hermon's 

dews ;  [serene, 

Thou,  in  whose  cause  have  martyrs  died 
In  soul  triumphant,  and  august  in  mien ; 
Oh !  bright  Religion,  spread  thy  spotless 

robe, 

Salvation's  mantle,  o'er  a  guilty  globe ; 
Oh  !  let  thine  ark,  where'er  the  billows  roll, 
Borne  on  their  bosom,  float  from  pole  to 

pole! 

Each  distant  isle  and  lonely  coast  explore, 
And  bear  the  olive-branch  to  every  shore  ; 
Come,  Seraph !  come  :  fair  pity  in  thy  train, 
Shall  sweetly  breathe  her  soul-dissolving 

strain,  [beam, 

While,  her  blue  eyes  through  tears  benignly 
Soft  as  the  moonlight,  quivering  on  the 

stream ;  [shall  play, 

Come,  Seraph !  come,   around'  thy  form 
Diffusive  glories  of  celestial  day  ; 
Oh  !  let  each  clime  thy  noon  of  lustre  share, 
And  rapture  hail  the  perfect  and  the  fair ; 
Let  peace  on  earth  resound  from  heaven 

once  more,  [pour ; 

And  angel-harps  th'  exulting  anthems 
While  faith,  and  truth,  and  holy  wisdom 

bind, 
One  hallowed  zone— to  circle  all  mankind. 


43 


I8i6 
THE  RESTORATION  OF  THE  WORKS  OF  ART  TO  ITALY. 

"  Italia,  .Italia !  O  to  cni  die  la  sorte 
Dono  infelice  di  bellezza,  ond*  hai 
Fonesta  dote  d'infiniti  guai, 
Che'n  fionte  scritte  per  gran  doglia  porte ; 
Deh,  fossi  tu  men  bella,  o  almen  piu.forte."— FIUCAJA. 

["  The  French,  who  in  every  invasion  have  been  the  scourge  of  Italy,  and  have  rivalled  or 
rather  surpassed  the  rapacity  of  the  Goths  and  Vandals,  laid  their  sacrilegious  hands  on  the  un- 
paralleled collection  of  the  Vatican,  tore  its  Masterpieces  from  their  pedestals,  and,  dragging  them 
from  their  temples  of  marblo,  transported  them  to  Paris,  and  consigned  them  to  the  dull  sullen 
halls,  or  rather  stables,  of  the  Louvre.  .  .  .  But  the  joy  of  discovery  was  short,  and  the  triumph 
of  taste  transitory."— "EUSTACK'S  Classical  Tour  through  Italy,  voL  ii.  p.  60.] 


LAND  of  departed  fame!  whose  classic 

plains 

Have  proudly  echoed  to  immortal  strains  ; 
Whose  hallowed  soil  hath  given  the  great 

and  brave, 

Day-stars  of  life,  a  birthplace  and  a  grave ; 
Home  of  the  Aits  I  where  glor/s  faded 
smile  [ing  pile ; 

Sheds  lingering  light  o'er  many  a  moulder- 
Proud  wreck  of  vanished  power,  of  splen- 
dour, fled, 

Majestic  temple  of  the  mighty  dead  I 
Whose  grandeur,  yet  contending  with  decay, 
Gleams  through  the  twilight  of  thy  glorious 

day; 
Though  dimmed  thy  brightness,  riveted 

thy  chain, 

Yet,  fallen  Italy  I  rejoice  again !  [gaze 
Lost,  lovely  Realm  !  once  more  'tis  thine  to 
On  the  rich  relics  of  sublimer  days. 

Awake,  ye  Muses  of  Etrurian  shades, 
Or  sacred  Tivoli's  romantic  glades  ; 
Wake,  ye  that  slumber  in  the  bowery  gloom 
Where  the  wild  ivy  shadows  Virgil's  tomb ; 
Or  ye,  whose  voice,  by  Sorga's  lonely  wave, 
Swelled  the  deep  echoes  of  the  fountain's 

cave, 

Or  thrilled  the  soul  InTasso's  numbers  high, 
Those  magic  strains  of  love  and  chivalry ; 
If  yet  by  classic  streams  ye  fondly  rove, 
Haunting  the  myrtle-vale,  the  laurel-grove ; 
Oh  1  rouse  once  more,  the  daring  soul  of 

song.  pong, 

Seize  with  bold  hand  the  harp,  forgot  so 
And  hail,  with  wonted  pride,  those  works 

revered,  [deared. 

Hallowed  by  time,  by  absence  more  en- 

And  breathe  to  those  the  strain,  whose 

warrior-might  [fight ; 

Each  danger  stemmed,  prevailed  in  every 


Souls  of  unyielding  power,  tostormsinured, 
Sublimed  by  peril,  and  by  toil  matured, 
Sing  of  that  Leader,  whose  ascendant  mind 
Could  rouse  the  slumbering  spirit  of  man- 
,  kind ;  [Eagle's  flight 

Whose  banners  tracked  the  vanquished 
O'er  many  a  plain,  and  dark  Sierra'sheight ; 
Who  bade  once  more  the  wild,  heroic  lay, 
Record  the  deeds  of  Roncesvalles'  day ; 
Who,  through  each  mountain-pass  of  rock 

and  snow,  [struck  foe  ; 

An  Alpine  Huntsman  chased  the  fear- 
Waved  his  proud  standard  to  the  balmy 

gales,  [vales, 

Rich  Languedoct  that  fan  thy  glowing 
And  *inidst  those  sceries  renewed  th' 

achievements  high, 
Bequeathed  to  fame  by  England's  ancestry. 

Yet,  when  the  storm  seemed  hushed,  the 

conflict  past,  [last  I 

One  strife  remained — the  mightiest  and  the 

Nerved  for  the  struggle,  in  that  fateful  hour 

Untamed   Ambition    summoned    all    his 

power :  [were  there, 

Vengeance  and  Pride,  to  frenzy  roused, 
And  the  stern  might  of  resolute  Despair. 
Isle  of  the  free  I  'twas  then  thy  champions 

stood,  [flood ; 

Breasting  unmoved  the  combat's  wildest 
Sunbeam  of  Battle !  then'  thy  spirit  shone, 
Glowed  in  each  breast,  and  sunk  with  life 

alone. 

O  hearts  devoted  I  whose  illustrious  doom, 
Gave  there  at  once  your  triumph  and  your 

tomb, 

Ye,  firm  and  faithful,  in  th'  ordeal  tried 
Of  that  dread  strife,  by  Freedom  sanctified ; 
Shrined,  not  entombed,  ye  rest  in  sacred 
earth,  [wortti. 

Hallowed  by  deeds  of  TOOK  than  mortal 


What  though  to  mark  where  sleeps  heroic 

dust.  [bust, 

No  sculptured  trophy  rise,  or  breathing 
Yours,  on  the  scene  where  valour's  race  was 

run, 

A  prouder  sepulchre — the  field  ye  won ! 
There  every  mead,  each  cabin's  lowly  name, 
Shall  live  a  watchword  blended  with  your 

fame ; 
And  well  may  flowers  suffice  those  graves 

to  crown 

That  ask  no  urn  to  blazon  their  renown ! 
There  shall  the  Bard  in  future  ages  tread, 
And  bless  each  wreath  that  blossoms  o'er 

the  dead ;  [wave 

Revere  each  tree,  whose  sheltering  branches 
O'er  the  low  mounds,  the  altars,  of  the 

brave; 
Pause  o'er  each  Warrior's  grass-grown  bed 

and  hear 

In  every  breeze,  some  name  to  glory  dear. 
And  as  the  shades  of  twilight  close  around, 
With  martial  pageants  peopleall  theground. 
Thither  unborn  descendants  of  the  slain 
Shall  throng,  as  pilgrims,  to  some  holy  fane, 
While,  as  they  trace  each  spot,  whose 

records  tell,  [and  fell, 

Where  fought  their  fathers,  and  prevailed, 
Warm  in  their  souls  shall  loftiest  feelings 

glow,  [below ! 

Claiming  proud  kindred  with  the  dust 
And  many  an  age  shall  see  the  brave  repair, 
To  learn  the  Hero's  bright  devotion  there. 

And  well,  Ausonia  I  may  that  field  of 

fame,  [claim. 

From  thee  one  song  of  echoing  triumph 
Land  of  the  lyre  1  'twas  there  th'  avenging 

sword  [restored ; 

Won  the  bright  treasures  to  thy  fanes 
Those  precious  trophies  o'er  thy  realms  that 

throw 

A  veil  of  radiance,  hiding  half  thy  woe, 
And  bid  the  stranger  for  awhile  forget 
How  deep  thy  fall,  and  deem  thee  glorious 

yet. 

Yes !  fair  creations,  to  perfection  wrought, 
Embodied  visions  of  ascending  thought  I 
Forms  of  sublimity  I  by  Genius  traced, 
In  tints  that  vindicate  adoring  taste ; 
Whose  bright  originals,  to  earth  unknown, 
Live  in  the  spheres  encircling  glory's  throne ; 
Models  of  art,  to  deathless  fame  consigned, 
Stamped  with  the  high-born  majesty  of 
mind ;  [restore 

Yes,  matchless  works !  your  presence  shall 
One  beam  of  splendour  to  your  native  shore, 


And  her  sad  scenes  of  lost  renown  illume, 
As  the  bright  Sunset  gilds  some  HeroS 
tomb. 

Oh  I  ne'er,  in  other  climes,  though  many 

an  eye 

Dwelt  on  your  charms,  in  beaming  ecstasy 
Ne'er  was  it  yours  to  bid  the  soul  expand 
With  thoughts  so  mighty,  dreams  so  boldly 

grand,  [moan, 

As  in  that  realm,  where  each  faint  breeze's 
Seems  a  low  dirge  for  glorious  ages  gone ; 
Where  'midst  the  ruined  shrines  of  many  9 

vale, 

E'en  Desolation  tells  a  haughty  tale, 
And  scarce  a  fountain  flows,  a  rock  ascends, 
But  its  proud  name  with  song  eternal 

blends  I 

Yes !  in  those  scenes  where  every  ancient 

stream 

Bids  memory  kindle  o'er  some  lofty  theme ; 
Where  every  marble  deeds  of  fame  records, 
Each  ruin  tells  of  Earth's  departed  lords ; 
And  the  deep  tones  of  inspiration  swell 
From  each  wild  Olive-wood  and  Alpine 

dell ;  [plains, 

Where  heroes  slumber,  on  their  battle 
'Midst  prostrate  altars,  and  deserted  fanes, 
And  Fancy  communes,  in  each  lonely  spot, 
With  shades  of  those  who  ne'er  shall  be 

forgot  X  [imprest, 

There  was  your  home,  and  there  your  power 
With  tenfold  awe,  the  pilgrim's  glowing 

breast ;  [sighs, 

And,  as  the  wind's  deep  thrills,  and  mystic 
Wake  the  wild  harp  to  loftiest  harmonies, 
Thus   at   your   influence,    starting   from 

repose,  [rose. 

Thought,  Feeling,   Fancy,  into  grandevu 

Fair  Florence !  Queen  of  Arno's  lovely 

vale ! 

Justice  and  Truth  indignant  heard  thy  tale, 
And  sternly  smiled  in  retribution's  hour, 
To  wrest  thy  treasures  from  the  Spoiler's 

power. 

Too  long  the  spirits  of  thy  noble  dead 
Mourned  o'er  the  domes  they  reared  in 

ages  fled.  [graced, 

Those  classic  scenes  their  pride  so  richly 
Temples  of  genius,  palaces  of  taste, 
Too  long,  with  sad  and  desolated  mien. 
Revealed  where  conquest's  lawless  track 

had  been ; 
Reft  of  each   form   with    brighter   light 

imbued, 
Lonely  they  frowned,  a  desert  solitude. 


WORKS  OF  ART  TO  ITALY. 


45 


Florence  I  th'  Oppressor's  noon  of  pride  is 

o'er, 
Rise  in  thy  pomp  again,  and  weep  no  more  1 

As  one  who,  starting  at  the  dawn  of  day 
From  dark  illusions,  phantoms  of  dismay, 
With  transport  heightened  by  those  ills  of 

night, 

Hails  the  rich  glories  of  expanding  light ; 
E'en  thus,  awakening  from  thy  dream  of 

woe, 
While  Heaven's  own  hues  in  radiance  ronnd 

theeglow, 

With  warmer  ecstasy  'tis  thine  to  trace 
Each  tint  of  beauty,  and  each  line  of  grace ; 
More  bright,  more  prized,  more  precious, 

since  deplored 

As  loved,  lost  relics,  ne'er  to  be  restored, 
Thy  grief  as  hopeless  as  the  tear-drop  shed 
By  fond  affection  bending  o'er  the  dead. 

Athens  of  Italy  I  once  more  are  thine, 

Those  matchless  gems  of  Art's  exhanstless 

mine.  [beam, 

For  the*  bright  Genfas  darts  his  living 

Warm  o'er  thy  shrines  the  tints  of  Glory 

stream, 

And  forms  august  as  natives  of  the  sky 
Rise  round  each  fane  in  faultless  majesty, 
So  chastely  perfect,  so  serenely  grand, 
They  seem  creations  of  no  mortal  hand. 

Ye,  at  whose  voice  fair  Art,  with  eagle 

glance,  [trance ; 

Burst  in  full  splendour  from  her  deathlike 
Whose  rallying  call  bade  slumbering  nations 

wake, 

And  daring  Intellect  his  bondage  break ; 
Beneath  whose  eye  the  Lords  of  song  arose, 
And  snatched  the  Tuscan  lyre  from  long 

repose, 

And  bade  its  pealing  energies  resound, 
With  power  electric,  through  the  realms 

around; 

Oh  I  high  in  thought,  magnificent  in  soul  1 
Born  to  inspire,  enlighten  and  control ; 
Cosmo,   Lorenzo  I  view  your  reign  once 

more, 

The  shrine  where  nations  mingle  to  adore  1 
Again  th'  Enthusiast  there,  with  ardent 

gaze, 

Shall  hail  tfie  mighty  of  departed  days : 
Those  sovereign  spirits,  whose  commanding 

mind,  [shrined ; 

Seems  in  the  marble'.-,  breathing  mould  en- 
Still,  with  ascendant  power,  the  world  to 

awe.. 
Still  the  deep  homage  of  the  heart  to  draw  ; 


To  breathe  some  spell  of  holiness  around, 
Bid  all  the  scene  be  consecrated  ground, 
And  from  the  stone,  by  Inspiration  wrought, 
Dart  the  pure  lightnings  of  exalted  thought 

There  thou,  fair  offspring  of  immortal 

Mind! 

Love's  radiant  Goddess,  Idol  of  mankind  I 
Once  the  bright  object  of  Devotion's  vow, 
Shalt  claim  from  taste  a  kindred  worship 

now.  [light, 

Oh  I  who  can  tell  what  beams  of  heavenly 
Flashed  o'er  the  sculptor !s  intellectual  sight, 
How  many  a  glimpse,  revealed  to  him 

alone,  [own ; 

Made  brighter  beings,  nobler  worlds  his 
Ere,  like  some  vision  sent  the  earth  to  bless, 
Burst  into  life  thy  pomp  of  loveliness  I 

Young1  Genius   there,   while  dwells  his 

kindling  eye 

On  forms,  instinct  with  bright  divinity, 
While  new-born  powers,  dilating  in  his 

heart, 

Embrace  the  full  magnificence  of  Art ; 
From  scenes,  by  Raphael's  gifted  hand 

arrayed,  [frayed ; 

From  dreams  of  heaven  by  Angelo  por- 
From  each  fair  work  of  Grecian  skill 

sublime,  [time ;" 

Sealed  with  perfection,  "sanctified  by 
Shall  catch  a  kindred  glow,  and  proudly 

feel 

His  spirit  burn  with  emulative  zeal : 
Buoyant  with  loftier  hopes,  his  soul  shall 

,   rise, 

Imbued  at  once  with  nobler  energies  ; 
O'er  life's  dim  scenes  on  rapid  pinion  soar 
And  worlds  of  visionary  grace  explore, 
Till  his  bold  hand  give  glory's  day-dreams 

birth,  [earth. 

And  with  new  wonders  charm  admiring 

Venice  exult !  and  o'er  thy  moonlight 
seas,  [breeze  I 

Swell   with    gay    strains   each    Adriatic 
What  though  long  fled  those  years  of  mar- 
tial fame, 

That  shed  romantic  lustre  o'er  thy  name  : 
Though  to  the  winds  thy  streamers  idly 

play. 

And  the  wild  waves  another  Queen  obey ; 
Though  quenched  the  spirit  of  thine  ancient 
race,  [trace; 

And  power  and  freedom  scarce  have  left  a 
Yet  still  shall  An  her  splendours  round 

•toeecast. 
And  gild  tbe  wreck  of  years  for  ever  past 


46 


THE  RESTORATION  OF  TEE 


Again  thy  fanes  may  boast  a  Titian's  dyes, 
Whose  clear  soft  brilliance  emulates  thy 

skies,  [bloom, 

And  scenes  that  glow  in  colouring's  richest 
With    life's  warm    flush    Palladian  halls 

illume.  [steed 

From  thy  rich  dome  again  th  'unrivalled 
Starts  to  existence,  rushes  into  speed, 
Still  for  Lysippus  claims  the  wreath  of  fame, 
Panting  with  ardour,  vivified  with  flame. 

Proud  Racers  of  the  Sun !   to  fancy's 

thought, 

Burning  with  spirit,  from  his  essence  caught, 
No  mortal  birth  ye  seem — but  formed  to 

bear  [of  air  ; 

Heaven's  car  of  triumph  through  the  realms 
To  range  uncurbed'  the  pathless  fields  of 

space, 

The  winds  your  rivals  in  the  glorious  race  ; 
Traverse  empyreal  spheres  with  buoyant 

feet, 

Free  as  the  zephyr,  as  the  shot-star  fleet ; 
And  waft  through  worlds   unknown  the 

vital  ray, 

The  flame  that  wakes  creations  into  day. 
Creatures  of  fire  and  ether  1  winged  with 

light, 

To  track  the  regions  of  the  Infinite  ! 
From  purer  elements  whose  light  was  drawn, 
Sprung  from  the  sunbeam,  offspring  of  the 

dawn, 

What  years  on  years,  in  silence  gliding  by, 
Have    spared    those     forms    of    perfect 

symmetry ! 

Moulded  by  Art  to  dignify  alone, 
Her  own  bright  deky's  resplendent  throne, 
Since  first    her  skill  their  fiery  grace  be- 
stowed, 

Meet  for  such  lofty  fate,  such  high  abode, 
How  many  a  race,  whose  tales  of  glory 

seem 

An  echo's  voice — the  music  of  a  dream, 
Whose  records  feebly  from  oblivion  save, 
A  few  bright  traces  of  the  wise  and  brave 
How  many  a  state,  whose  pillared  strength 

sublime, 

Defied  the  storms  of  war,  the  waves  of  time, 
Towering  o'er  earth  majestic  and  alone, 
Fortress  of  power — has  flourished  and  is 

gone  1  [borne, 

And  they,  from  clime  to  clime  by  conquest 
Each  fleeting  triumph  destined  to  adorn, 
They,  that  of  powers  and  kingdoms  lost 

and  won. 

Have  seen  the  noontide  and  the  setting  sun. 
Consummate  still  in  every  grace  remain, 
As  O'er  ihtir  heads  had  ages  rolled  in  vain!  \ 


Ages,  victorious  in  their  ceaseless  flight, 
D'er  countless  monuments  of  earthly  mighn 
While   she,    from   fair    Byzantium'?   lost 

domain, 

Who  bore  those  treasures  to  her  ocean-reign, 
Midst  the    blue    deep,   who   reared  her 

island-throne, 

And  called  th'  infinitude  of  waves  her  own  ; 
Venice  the  proud,  the  Regent  of  the  sea, 
Welcomes  in  chains  the  trophies  of  the 

Free! 

And  thcu,  whose  Eagle's  towering  plume 

unfurled 

Once  cast  its  shadow  o'er  a  vassal  world, 
Eternal  city  !  round  whose  Curule  throne 
The  Lords  of  nations  knelt  in  ages  flown  ; 
Thou,  whose  Augustan  years  have  left  to 

time 

Immortal  records  of  their  glorious  prime  ; 
When  deathless  bards,  thine  olive  shades 

among, 

Swelled  the  high  raptures  of  heroic  song  ; 
Fair,  fallen  Empress  !  raise  thy  languid 

heed, 

From  the  cold  altars  of  th'  illustrious  dead, 
And  once  again  with  fond  delight  survey, 
The  proud  memorials  of  thy  noblest  day. 

Lo !  where  thy'  sons,  ob  Rome  1  a  god- 
like train, 

In  imaged  majesty  return  again  I 
Bards,   chieftains,  monarchs,   tower  with 

mien  august 

O'er  scenes  that  shrine  their  venerable  dust. 
Those  forms,  those  features,  luminous  with 

soul, 

Still  o'er  thy  children  seem  to  claim  control ; 
Withawful  grace  arrest  the  pilgrim's  glance, 
Bind  his  rapt  soul  in  elevating  trance, 
And  bid  the  past,  to  fancy's  ardent  eyes, 
From  time's  dim  sepulchre  in  glory  rise. 

Souls  of  the  lofty  I  whose  undying  names 
Rouse  the  young  bosom  still   to  noblest 

aims ; 

Oh  1  with  your  images  could  fate  restore, 
Your  own  high  spirit  to  your  sons  once 

more ; 
Patriots  and  Heroes  I  could  those  flames 

return,  [ardours  burn  ; 

That    bade   your   hearts  with   freedom's 
Then  from  the  sacred  ashes  of  the  first, 
Might  a  new  Rome  in  pncenix-graadfjir 

burst  I  [gloorc,. 

With  one  bright  glance  dispel  th'  horizon's 
With  one  loud  call  wake  Empire  from  the 

tomb , 


WORKS  OF  ART  TO  ITALY. 


Bind  round  her  brows  her  own  triumphal 

crown, 

Lift  her  dread  Mg\s,  with  majestic  frown, 
U  nchain  her  Eagle's  wing,  and  guide  his 

flight 
To  bathe  its  plumage  in  the  fount  of  light 

*  *ain'  dream  I  degraded  Rome !  thy  noon 

is  o'er ; 

Or  ce  lost,  thy  spirit  shall  revive  no  more. 
It  sleeps  with  those,  the  sons  of  other  days, 
W  ho  fixed  on  thee  the  world's  adoring  gaze  ; 
Tnose,  blest  to  live,  while  yet  thy  star  was 

high,  [beam,  '°  die  I 

More  blest,    ere   darkness  quenched  its 

Yet,  though  thy  faithless  tutelary  powers 
Have  fled  thy  shrines,  left  desolate  thy 

towers,  [way, 

Still,  still  to  thee  shall  nations  bend  their 
Revered  in  ruin,  sovereign  in  decay  I 
Oh  I  what  can  realms,  in  fame's  full  zenith, 

boast, 

To  match  the  relics  of  thy  splendour  lost  I 
By  Tiber's  waves,  on  each  illustrious  hill, 
Genius  and  Taste  shall  love  to  wander  still; 
For  there  has  Art  survived  an  Empire's 

doom,  [phied  tomb : 

And  reared  her  throne  o'er  Latium's  tro- 
She  from  the  dust  recalls  the  brave  and  free, 
Peopling  each  scene  with  beings  worthy 

thee  I 

Oh  1  ne'er  again  may  War,  with  light- 
ning stroke,  [oak  I 
Rend  its  last  honours  from  the  shattered 
Long  be  those  works,  revered  by 'ages,  thine, 
To  lend  one  triumph  to  thy  dim  decline. 

Bright   with    stern    beauty,    breathing 

wrathful  fire, 

In  all  the  grandeur  of  celestial  ire, 
Once    more    thine    own,    th'    immortal 

Archer's  form  [being  warm  I 

Sheds  radiance  round,  with  more  than 
Oh  1  who  could  view,  nor  deem  that  perfect 

frame, 
A  living  temple  of  ethereal  flame  ? 

Lord  of  the  day-star !  how  may  words 

portray 

Of  thy  chaste  glory  one  reflected  ray  ? 
Whate'er  the  soul  could  dream,  the  hand 

could  trace, 

Of  real  dignity,  and  heavenly  grace, 
Each  purer  effluence  of  the  fair  and  bright, 
Whose  fitful  gleams  have  broke  on  mortal 

sight; 


Each. bold  idea,  borrowed  from  the  sky. 
To  vest  th'  embodied  form  of  Deity ; 
All,  all  in  thee,  ennobled  and  refined, 
Breathe  and  enchant,  transcendently  com- 
bined I 

Son  of  Elysium  !  years  and  ages  gone, 
Have  bowed,  in  speechless  homage,  at  thy 

throne, 

And  days  unborn,  and  nations  yet  to  be, 
Shall  gaze,  absorbed  in  ecstasy,  on  thee  1 

And  thou,  triumphant  wreck,*  e'en  yet 

sublime, 

Disputed  trophy,  claimed  by  Art  and  Time  : 
Hail  to  that  scene  again,  where  Genius 

caught 

From  thee  its  fervours  of  diviner  thought ! 
Where  He,  th'  inspired  One,  whose  gigan- 
tic mind  [assigned ; 
Lived   in    some   sphere,    to    him    alone 
Who  from  the  past,  the  future,  and  th' 
unseen,  [mien : 
Could  call  up  forms  of  more  than  earthly 
Unrivalled  Angelo  on  thee  would  gaze, 
Till  his  full  soul  imbibed  perfection's  blaze  f 
And  who  but  he,  that  Prince  of  Art,  might 
dare                                       [despair  ? 
Thy   sovereign    greatness    view   without 
Emblem  of  Rome  1  from  power's  meridian 
hurled,  , 
Yet  claiming  still  the  homage  of  the  world, 

What  hadst  thou  been,  ere  barbarous 

hands  defaced 

The  work  of  wonder,  idolized  by  taste? 
Oh  I  worthy  still  of  some  divine  abode, 
Mould  of  a  Conqueror  !  ruin  of  a  God  ! 
Still,  like  some  broken  gem,  whose  quench- 
less beam  [stream, 
From  each  bright  fragment  pours  its  vital 
'Tis  thine,  by  fate  unconquered,  to  dispense 
From  every  part,  some  ray  of  excellence  1 
E'en  yet,  informed  with  essence  from  on 

high, 

Thine  is  no  trace  of  frail  mortality  ! 
Within  that  frame  a  purer  being  glows, 
Through  viewless  vains  a  brighter  current 
flows ;  [swells, 

Filled   with   immortal   life   each   muscle 
In  every  line  supernal  grandeur  dwells. 

Consummate  work  I  the  noblest  and  the 

last,  [past, 

Of  Grecian  Freedom,  ere  her  reign  was 


*  The  Belvidere  Torso,  the  favourite  study  of 
Michael  Angelo,  and  of  many  other  distin- 
guished artists, 


THE  RESTORATION  OF  TEE 


Nurse  of  the  mighty,  she,  while  lingering 

still, 

Her  mantle  flowed  o'er  many  a  classic  hill, 
Ere   yet   her   voice    its   parting   accents 

breathed, 

A  Hero's  image  to  the  world  bequeathed  ; 
Enshrined  in  thee  th"  imperishable  ray 
Of  high-souled   Genius,  fostered  by  her 

sway, 

And  bade  thee  teach,  to  ages  yet  unborn, 
What  lofty  dreams  were  hers — who  never 

shall  return  1 

And  mark  yon  group,  transfixed  with 

many  a  throe, 

Sealed  with  the  image  of  eternal  woe : 
With  fearful  truth,  terrific  power,  exprest, 
Thy  pangs,  Laocoon,  agonize  the  breast, 
And  the  stern  combat  picture  to  mankind, 
Of  suffering  nature,  and  enduring  mind. 
Oh,    mighty  conflict  1    though  his  pains 

intense,  [every  sense  ; 

Distend   each   nerve,  and   dart   through 
Though  fixed  on  him,  his  children's  sup- 
pliant eyes 

Implore  the  aid  avenging  fate  denies ; 
Though  with  the  giant-snake  in  fruitless 

strife, 

Heaves  every  muscle  with  convulsive  life, 
And   in    each    limb    Existence   writhes, 

enrolled  [fold ; 

'Midst  the  dread  circles  of  thevenomed 
Yet  the  strong  spirit  lives — and  not  a.  cry 
Shall  own  the  might  of  Nature's  agony  1 
That   furrowed   brow   unconquered   soul 

reveals, 

That  patient  eye  to  angry  Heaven  appeals, 
That  struggling   bosom    concentrates  its 

breath, 
Nor  yields  one  moan  to  torture  or  to  death  I 

Sublimest  triumph  of  intrepid  Art  ! 
With  speechless  horror  to  congeal  the  heart, 
To  freeze  each  pulse,  and  dart  through 
every  vein,  [pain ; 

Cold  thrills  of  fear,  keen  sympathies  of 
Yet  teach  the  spirit  how  its  lofty  power 
May  brave  the  pangs  of  fate's  severest  hour.. 

Turn  from  such  conflicts,  and  enraptured 

gaze  [plays : 

On  scenes  where  Painting  all  her  skill  dis- 

Landscapes,  by  colouring  drest  in  richer 

dyes,  [skies, 

More  mellowed  sunshine,  more  unclouded 

Or  dreams  of  bliss  to  dying  Martyrs  given, 

Descending  Seraphs  robed  in  beams   of 

heaven. 


Oh !  sovereign  Masters  of  the  Peudl'a 

might, 

Its  depth  of  shadow,  and  its  blaze  of  light; 
Ye,  whose  bold  thought  disdaining  every 
bound,  , 

Explored  the  worlds  above,  below,  around, 
Children  of  Italy  I  who  stand  alone  | 

And  unapproached,  'midst  regions  all  your 
own ;  [favoured  sight, 

What   scenes,    what    beings    blest   your 
Severely  grand,  unutterably  bright! 
Triumphant  spirits  I  your  exulting  eye 
Could  meet  the  noontide  of  eternity, 
And    gaze    untired,    undaunted,    uncon- 
trolled, 
On  all  that  Fancy  trembles  to  behold.' 

Bright -on  your  view  such  forms  their 

splendour  shed 

As  burst  on  Prophet-bards  in  ages  fled : 
Forms  that  to  trace,  no  hand  but  yours 

might  dare, 

Darkly  sublime,  or  exquisitely  fair ; 
These  o'er  the   walls  your   magic  skill 

arrayed,  '  [ing  shade-. 

Glow  in  rich  sunshine,  gleam  through  melt- 
Float  in  light  grace,  in  awful  gfeatness 

tower,  [power. 

And  breathe  and  move,  the  records  of  your 
Inspired  of  heaven  1  what  heightened  pomp 

ye  cast, 

O'er  all  the  deathless  trophies  of  the  past  I 
Round  many  a  marble  fane  and  classic 

dome, 

Asserting  still  the  majesty  of  Rome  ; 
Round  many  a  work  that  bids  the  world 

believe,  [achieve ; 

What   Grecian   Art    could    image    and 
Again,  creative  minds,  yoc«  visions  throw. 
Life's  chastened  warmth  and  Beauty's  mel- 
lowest glow. 
And  when  the  Mom's  bright  beams  and 

mantling  dyes 

Pour  the  rich  lustre  of  Ausonian  skies, 
Or  evening  suns  illume,  with  pur^ie  smile, 
The  Parian  altar,  and  the  pillared  aisle, 
Then,  as  the  full,  or  softened  radiance  falls, 
On  Angel-groups  that  hover  o'er  the  walls, 
Well  may  those  Temples,  where  your  hand 

has  shed  [dead, 

Light  o'er  the  tomb,  existence  round  the 
Seem  like  some  world,  so  perfect  and  so 

fair, 

That  nought  of  earth  should  find  admit- 
tance there, 
Some  sphere,  where  beings,  to  mankind 

unknown, 
Dwell  in  the  brightness  of  their  pomp  alone! 


WORKS  OF  ART  TO  ITALY. 


49 


Hence,  ye  vain  fictions  I  fancy's  erring 

theme  I 

Gods  of  illusion  I  phantoms  of  a  dream  I 
Frail,  powerless  idols  of 'leparted  time, 
Fables  of  song,  delusire,  though  sublime ! 
To  loftier  tasks  has  Roman  Art  assigned 
Her  matchless  pencil.and  her  mighty  mind  1 
From   brighter  streams    her   vast   ideas 

flowed, 

With  purer  fire  her  ardent  spirit'  glowed. 
To  her  'twas  given  in  fancy  to  explore 
The  land  of  miracles,  the  holiest  shore ; 
That  realm  where  first  the  light  of  life  was 

sent,  [tent  1 

The  loved,  the  punished,  of  th'  Omnipo- 
O'er  Judab's  hills  her  thoughts  inspired 

would  stray,  [way ; 

Through  Jordan's  valleys  trace  their  lonely 
By  Siloa's  brook,  or  Almo tana's  deep,* 
Chained  in  dead  silence,  and  unbroken 

sleep ;  [serts  tell, 

Scenes,  whose  cleft  rocks  and  blasted  de- 
Where  passed  th'  Eternal,  where  his  anger 

fell  I  [vealed, 

Where  oft  his  voice  the  words  of  fate  re- 
Swelled  in  the  whirlwind,  in  the  thunder 

pealed, 

Or  heard  by  prophets  in  some  palmy  vale, 
Breathed  "still  small"  whispers  on  the 

midnight  gale.  [portrayed, 

There  dwelt  her  spirit — there  her  hand 
'Midst  the  lone  wilderness  or  cedar-shade, 
Ethereal  forms  with  awful  missions  fraught, 
Or  Patriarch-seers  absorbed  in  sacred 

thought,  [rest, 

Bards,  in  high  converse  with  the  world  of 
Saints  of  the  earth,  and  spirits  of  the  blest, 
But  chief  to  Him,  the  Conqueror  of  the 

grave,  [save ; 

Who  lived  to  guide  us,  and  who  died  to 


•  Almetana.   The  name  given  bjr  the  Arabs 
to  rhfr  Dead  Sfa. 


Him,  at  whose  glance  the  powers  of  evil 
fled, 

And  soul  returned  to  animate  the  dead ; 

Whom  the  waves  owned — and  sunk  be- 
neath his  eye, 

Awed  by  one  accent  of  Divinity ; 

To  Him  she  gave  her  meditative  hours, 

Hallowed  her  thoughts,  and  sanctified  her 
powers.  [threw, 

O'er  her  bright  scenes  sublime  repose  she 

As  all  around  the  Godhead's  presence 
knew, 

And  robed  the  Holy  One's  benignant  mien 

In  beaming  mercy,  majesty  serene. 

Oh  I  mark,  where  Raphael's  pure  and 

perfect  line 

Portrays  that  form  ineffably  divine  ! 
Where  with  transcendent  skill  his  hand  has 

sh<*d 
Diffusive  sunbeams  round  the   Saviour's 

head;* 

Each  heaven-illumined  lineament  imbued 
With  all  the  fulness  of  beatitude, 
And  traced  the  sainted  group,  whose  mortal 

sight 
Sinks  overpowered  by  that  excess  of  light  I 

Gaze  on  that  scene,  and  own  the  might 

of  Art, 

By  truth  inspired,  to  elevate  the  heart  I 
To  bid  the  soul  exultingly  possess,     [ness ; 
Of  all  her  powers,  a  heightened  conscious- 
And  strong  in  hope,  anticipate  the  day, 
The  last  of  life,  the  first  of  freedom's  ray; 
To  realize,  in  some  unclouded  sphere, 
Those  pictured  glories  feebly  imaged  here  I 
Dim,  cold  reflections  from  her  native  sky. 
Faint  effluence  of  "  the  day-spring  from 
on  high  I" 


•  TMe  Trant/ifHmtioo. 


50, 


!8i6. 
MODERN    GREECE. 


r, 


Oa  1    who  hath  trod    thy  consecrated 

clime,  [strains  1 

Fair  land  of  Phidias!    theme  of  lofty 
And  traced  each  scene,  that,  'midst  the 

wrecks  of  time, 

The  print  of  Glory's  parting  step  retains ; 
Nor  for  awhile,  in  high-wrought  dreams, 

forgot,  [there, 

Musing  on  years  gone  by  In  brightness 
The  hopes,  the  fears,  the  sorrows  of  his 

lot,  [wear ; 

The  hues  bis  fate  hath  worn,  or  yet  may 
As  when,  from   mountain-heights,  his 

ardent  eye  [infinity  ? 

Of  sea  and  heaven  hath  tracked  the  blue 

n. 

Is  there  who  views  with  cold  unaltered 
mien,  [fraught, 

His  frozen  heart  with  proud  Indifference 
Each  sacred   haunt,  each  unforgotten 
scene,  [Wisdom  taught  ? 

Where  Freedom  triumphed,  or  where 
Souls  that  too  deeply  feel  I  oh,  envy  not 
The  sullen  calm  your  fate  hath  never 
known :  [lot 

Through  the  dull  twilight  of  that  wintry 
Genius  ne'er  pierced,  nor  Fancy's  sun- 
beam shone,  [Glory  s  trace, 
Nor  those  high  thoughts  that,  hailing 
Glow  with  the  generous  flames  of  every  age 
and  race. 

lit. 

But  West  the  wanderer,  whose  enthusiast 
mind  [imbued 

Each  muse  of  ancient  days' hath  deep 

With  lofty  lore ;  and  all  his  thoughts  re- 
fined 

In  the  calm  school  of  silent  solitude ; 

Poured  on  his  ear,  'midst  groves  and 
giens  retired,  [clime, 

The  mighty  strains  of  each  illustrious 

All  that  hath  lived,  while  empires  have 
expired, 

To  float  for  ever  on  the  winds  of  Time ; 

And  on  his  soul  indelibly  portrayed 
Fair  visionary  forms,  to  fiU  each  classic 


IV. 


Is  not  his  mind,  to  meaner  thoughts  un< 

known, 

A  sanctuary  of  beauty  and  of  light  ? 
There  he  may  dwell,  in  regions  all  his 

own,  [bright, 

A  world  of  dreams,  where  all  is  pure  and 
For  him  the  scenes  of  old  renown  possess 
Romantic  charms,  all  veiled  from  other 

eyes; 

There  every  form  of  nature's  loveliness 
Wakes  in  his  breast  a  thousand  synv 

pathies ;  [delt 

As  music's  voice,  in  some  lone  mountain* 

From  rocks  and  caves  around  calls  forth 

each  echo's  swell. 

V. 

For  him  Italia's  brilliant  skies  illume 
The  bard's  lone  haunts,   the  warrior's 

combat-plains,  [and  bloom 

And  the  wild-rose  yet  lives  to  breathe 
Round  Doric  Psestum's  solitary  fanes. 
But  most,  fair  Greece  I  on  thy  majestic 

shore 

He  feels  the  fervours  of  his  spirit  rise ; 
Thou  birth-place  of  the  Muse !  whose 

voice,  of  yore,  [monies ; 

Breathed  in  thy  groves  immortal  har- 
And  lingers  still  around  the  well-known 

coact, 
Murmuring  a  wild  farewell  to  fame  and 

freedom  lost. 

VT. 

By  seas,  that  flow  in  brightness  as -the) 

lave  [may  stray, 

Thy  rocks,  th' enthusiast, rapt  in  thought, 
While  roves  his  eye  o'er  that  deserted 

wave,  [array. 

Once  the  proud  scene  of  battle's  dread 
— O  ye  blue  waters  I  ye,  of  old  that  bore 
The  free,  the  conquering,  hymned  by 

choral  strains,  [shore, 

How  sleep  ye  now  around  the  silent 
The  lonely  realm  of  ruins  and  of  chains ! 
How  are  the  mighty  vanished  in  theii. 

pride  1 
E'en  as  their  barks  have  left  BO  traces  on 

your  tide. 


MODERN  GREECE. 


VII. 


Hushed  are  the  paeans  whose  exulting 

tone  [sleep — 

Swelled  o'er  that  tide — the  sons  of  battle 
The  wind's  wild  sigh,  the  halcyon's  voice, 

alone  [deep. 

Blend  with  the  plaintive  murmur  of  the 
Yet  when  those  waves  have  caught  the 

splendid  hues 

Of  morn's  rich  firmament,  serenely  bright, 
Or  setting  suns  the  lovely  shore  suffuse 
With  all  their  purple  mellowness  of  light, 
Oh  !  who  could  view  the  scene,  so  calmly 

fair,  [were  there  ? 

Nor  dream  that  peace,  and  joy,  and  liberty 

VIII. 

Where  soft  the  sunbeams    play,    the 
zephyrs  blow,  [nigh  ; 

Tis  hard  to  deem  that  misery  can  be 
Where  the  clear  heavens  in  blue  trans- 
parence glow, 

Life  should  be  calm  and  cloudless  as  the 

sky ;  [dead, 

— Yet,  o'er  the  low,  dark  dwellings  of  the 

Verdure  and  flowers  in  summer-bloom 

may  smile,  [spread 

And  ivy-boughs  their  graceful  drapery 

In  green  luxuriance  o'er  the  ruined  pile  ; 

And  mantling  woodbine  veil  the  withered 

tree  ;  [with  thee. 

And  thus  it  is,  fair,  land,  forsaken  Greece  I 

IX. 

For  all  the  loveliness,  andJi'ght,  and  bloom 
That  yet  are  thine,  surviving  many  a 
storm,  [tomb, 

Are  but  as  heaven's  warm  radiance  on  the 
The  rose's  blush  that  masks  the  canker- 
worm  : —  [passed 
And  thou  art  desolate— thy  morn  hath 
So  dazzling  in  the  splendour  of  its  way, 
That  the  dark  shades  the  night  bath  o'er 
thee  cast  [decay. 
Throw  tenfold  gloom  around  thy  deep 
Once  proud  in  freedom,  still  in  ruin  fair, 
Tby  fate  hath  been  unmatched— in  glory 
and  despair. 

X. 

For  thee,  lost  land  I  the  hero's  blood 

hath  flowed,  [died ; 

The  high  in  soul  have  brightly  lived  and 

For  thee  the  light  of  soaring  genius  glowed 

O'er  the  fair  arts  it  formed  and  glorified. 

Thine  were  the  minds  whose  «?nergies 

subbine 


So  distanced  ages  in  their  lightning-race, 
The  task  they  left  the  sons  of  later  time 
Was  but  to  follow  their  illumined  trace. 
—Now,  bowed  to  earth,  thy  children,  to 
be  free,  [hearts  to  thee. 

Must  break  each  link  that  binds  their  filial 

XI. 

Lo !  to  the  scenes  of  fiction's  wildest  tales, 
Her  own  bright  East,  thy  son,  Morea ! 

flies, 

To  seek  repose  'midst  rich,  romantic  vales, 
Whose  incense  mounts  to  Asia's  vivid 

skies.  [vain 

There  shall  he  rest?— Alas  1  his  hopes  in 
Guide  to  the  sun-clad  regions  of  the  palm, 
Peace  dwells  not  now  on  oriental  plain, 
Though  earth  is  fruitfulness,  and  air  is 

balm ;  [foes, 

And  the  sad  wanderer  finds  but  lawless 

Where  patriarchs  reigned  of  old,  in  pastoral 

repose. 

XII. 

Where  Syria's  mountains  rise,  or  Yemen's 

groves, 

Or  Tigris  rolls  his  genii-haunted  wave, 
Life  to  his  eye,  as  wearily  it  roves, 
Wears  but  two  forms— the  tyrant  and  the 

slave  I 
There  the  fierce  Arab  leads  his  darin? 

horde, 
Where  sweeps  the  sandstorm  o'er  the 

burning  wild ; 
There  stern  Oppression  waves  the  wasting 

sword, 
O'er  plains  that  smile,  as  ancient  Eden 

smiled ;  [gloom, 

And  the  vale's  bosom,  and  the  desert's 

Yield  to  the  injured  there  no  shelter  save 

the  tomb. 

xin. 

But  thou,  fair  world  !  whose  fresh  unsul- 
lied charms  [wave, 
Welcomed  Columbus  from  the  western 
Wilt  thou  receive  the  wanderer  to  thine 
arms,                                   [brave  ? 
The  lost  descendant  of  the  immortal 
Amidst  the  wild  magnificence  of  shades 
That  o'er  thy  floods  their  twilight -gran- 
deur cast,                              [glades, 
In  the  green  depth  of  thine  untrodden 
Shall  he  not  rear  his  bower  of  peace  at 
last  ?                                       [scene, 
Yes !  thou  hast  many  a  lone,  majestic 
Shrined  fn  primaeval  woods,  where  despof 
Dt'er  bath  beec 


52 


MOVERN  GREECE. 


There  by  some  lake,  whose  blue  expan- 
sive breast 

Bright  from  afar,  an  inland-ocean,  gleams, 
Girt  with  vast  solitudes,  profusely  drest 
In  tints  like  those  that  float  o'er  poet's 
dreams  *  [mountain  pours 

Or   where  some  flood  from    pine-clad 
Its  might  of  waters,  glittering  in  their 
foam,  [shores, 

'Midst   the  rich  verdure  of  its  wooded 
The  exiled  Greek  hath  fixed  his  sylvan 
home :  [treat 

So  deeply  lone,  that  round  the  wild  re- 
Scarce  have  the  paths  been  trod  by  Indian 
huntsman's  feet. 

xv. 

The  forests  are  around  him  in  their  pride, 
The  green  savannas,  and  the  mighty 

waves ;  [the  tide, 

And  isles  of  flowers,  bright-floating  o'er 
That  images  the  fairy  worlds  it  laves, 
And  stillness  and   luxuriance— o'er  his 

head  [bowers, 

The  ancient  cedars  wave  their  peopled 
On  high  the  palms  their  graceful  foliage 

spread, 

Cinctured  with  roses  the  magnolia  towers, 
And  from  those  green  arcades  a  thousand 

tones 
Wake  with  each*breeze,  whose  voice  through 

Nature's  temple  moans. 

XVI. 

And  there,  no  traces  left  by  brighter  days, 
For  glory  lost  may  wake  a  sigh  of  grief, 
Some  grassy  mound  perchance  may  meet 

his  gaze, 

The  lone  memorial  of  an  Indian  chief. 
There  man  not  yet  hath  marked   the 

boundless  plain  [power  ; 

With  rrfarble  records  of  his  fame  and 
The  forest  is  his  everlasting  fane, 
The  palm  his  monument,  the  rock  his 

tower : 

Th'  eternal  torrent  and  the  giant  tree 
.Remind  him  but  that  they,  like  him,  are 

wildly  free. 

XVII. 

But  doth  the  exile's  heart  serenely  there 
In  sunshine  dwell  ? — Ah  1  when  was 

exile  blest? 
When  did  bright  scenes,  clear  heavens, 

or  summer  air, 
Chase  from  his  soul  the  fever  of  unrest  t 


— There  is  a  heart -sick  weariness  of  mood, 
That  like  slow  poison  wastes  the  vitaj 

glow, 

And  shrines  itself  in  mental  solitude, 
An  uncomplaining  and  a  nameless  woe, 
That     coldly    smiles   'midst    pleasure's 

brightest  ray,  [of  day. 

As  the  chill  glacier's  peak  reflects  the  flush 

XVIII. 

Such  grief  is  theirs,  who,  fixed  on  foreign 

shore, 

Sigh  for  the  spirit  of  their  native  gales, 
As  pines  the  seaman,  'midst  the  ocean's 

roar,  [and  vales. 

For  the  green  earth,  with  all  its  woods 
Thus  feels  thy  child,  whose  memory 

dwells  with  thee,  [thou  art ; 

Loved  Greece  1  all  sunk  and  blighted  as 
Though  thought  and  step  in  western  wilds 

be  free,  [heart » 

Yet  thine  are  still  the  day-dreams  of  hii 
The  deserts  spread  between,  the  billows 

foam,  [spirit's  home. 

Thou,  distant  and  in  cliains.  art  yet  his 

xuc. 

In  vain  for  him  the  gay  liannes  entwine, 
Or  the  green  firefly  sparkles  through  the 

brakes,  [pine, 

Or  summer  winds  waft  odours  from  the 
As  eve's  last  blush  is  dying  on  the  lakes. 
Through  thy  fair  vales  his  fancy  roves  the 

while,  [height, 

Or  breathes  the  freshness  of  Cithseron's 
Or  dreams  how  softly  Athens'  towers 

would  smile, 

Or  Sunium's  ruins,  in  the  fading  light ; 
On  Corinth's  cliff  what  sunset  hues  may 

sleep,  [deep  I 

Or,  at  that  placid  hour,  bow  calm  th'  &geaa 

XX. 

What  scenes,  what  sunbeams,  are  to  him 

like  thine  ? 

(The  all  of  thine  no  tyrant  could  destroy  I) 
E'en  to  the  stranger's  roving  eye  they 

shine, 

Soft  as  a  vision  of  remembered  joy. 
And  he  who  comes,  the  pilgrim  of  a  day, 
A  passing  wanderer  o'er  each  Attic  hill, 
Sighs  as  his  footsteps  turn  from  thy  decay, 
To  laughing  climes,  where  all  is  splen- 
dour still ;  [shore, 
And  views  with  fond  regret  thy  lessening 
As  he  would  watch  a  star  that  sets  to  rise 
no  more 


MODERN  QREECE. 


63 


xxi. 

R  eil  m  of  sad  beauty  I  thou  art  as  a  shrine 
That  Fancy  visits  with  Devotion's  zeal, 
To   catch  high  thoughts  and  impulses 

divine, 

And  all  the  glow  of  soul  enthusiasts  feel 
Amidst  the  tombs  of  heroes — for  the 
brave  [thy  soil, 

Whose  dust,  so  many  an  age,  hath  been 
Foremost  in  honour's  phalanx,  died  to 
save  [toil ; 

The  land  redeemed  and  hallowed  by  their 
And  there  is  language  in  thy  lightest  gale, 
That  o'er  the  plains  they  won,  seems  mur- 
muring yet  their  tale. 

XXII. 

And  he  whose  heart  is  weary  of  the  strife 
Of  meaner  spirits,  and  whose  mental  gaze 
Would  shun  the  dull  cold  littleness  of  life, 
Awhile  to  dwell 'amidst  sublimer  days, 
Must  turn  to  thee,  whose  every  valley 

teems 

With  proud  remembrances  that  cannot  die. 
Thy  glens  are  peopled  with  inspiring 

dreams, 

Thy  winds,  the  voice  of  oracles  gone  by  ; 
And  'midst  thy  laurel  shades  the  wanderer 

hears  [vanished  years. 

The  sound  of  mighty  names,  the  hymns  of 


Through  that  deep  solitude  be  his  to  stray, 
By  Faun  and  Oread  loved  in  ages  past, 
Where  clear  Peneus  winds  his  rapid  way 
Through  the   cleft  heights,  in  antique 

grandeur  vast. 
Romantic   Tempe !    thou   art  yet    the 

same —  [time : 

Wild,  as  when  sung  by  bards  of  elder 
Years,  that   have    changed    thy  river's 

classic  name,*  [lime ; 

Have  left  thee  still  in  savage  pomp  sub- 
And  from  thine  Alpine  clefts  and  marble 

caves,  [tain-waves. 

In  living  lustre  still  break  forth  the  foun- 

XXIV. 

Beneath  thy  mountain  battlements  and 

towers, 

Where  the  rich  arbute's  coral  berries  glow, 
-Or  midst  th'  exuberance  of  thy  forest 

bowers,  [flow, 

Casting  deep  shadows  o'er  the  current's 


»  Th«  Pcrteus  Is  now  called  SalyinprU 


Oft  shall  the  pilgrim  pause,  in  lone  recess, 
As  rock  and  stream  some  glancing  light 

have  caught, 
And  gaze,   till  Nature's  mighty  forms 

impress 

His  soul  with  deep  sublimity  of  thought; 
And  linger  oft,  recalling  many  a  tale, 
That  breeze,  and  wave,  and  wood,  seem 

whispering  through  thy  dale. 


He,    thought-entranced,    may    wander 

where  of  old  [rose, 

From  Delphi's  chasm  the  mystic  vapour 
And  trembling  nations  heard  their  doom 

foretold  [and  snows. 

By  the  dread  spirit  throned  midst  rocks 
Though  its  rich  fanes  be  blended  with 

the  dust,  [possess, 

And  silence   now  the   hallowed  haunt 
Still  is  the  scene  of  ancient  rites  august, 
Magnificent  in  mountain  loneliness  ; 
Still  Inspiration  hovers  o'er  the  ground, 
Where    Greece    her    councils    held,   her 

Pythian  victors  crowned. 

XXVI. 

Or  let  his  steps  the  rude  grey  cliffs  explore 
Of  that  wild  pass,  once  dyed  with  Spartan 
blood,  [shore, 

When  by  the  waves  that  break  on  CEta's 
The  few,  the  fearless,  the  devoted  stood  I 
Or  rove  where,  shadowing  Mantinea's 

plain, 

Bloom  the  wild  laurels  o'er  the  war- 
like dead, 

Or  lone  Platsea's  ruins  yet  remain 
To  mark  the  battle-field  of  ages  fled : 
Still  o'er  such  scenes  presides  a  sacred 

power, 

Though  Fiction's  gods  have  fled  from  foun- 
tain, grot,  and  bower. 

XXVII. 

Oh !   still  unblamed   may  fancy  fondly 

deem  [dwell. 

That,  lingering  yet,  benignant  genii 
Where  mortal  worth  has  hallowed  grovo 

or  stream,  [spell ; 

To  sway  the  heart  with  some  ennobling 
For  mightiest  minds  have  felt  their  blest 

control, 

In  the  wood's  murmur,  in  the  zephyr's  sigh, 
And  these  are  dreams  that  lend  a  voice 

and  soul, 
And  a  high  power,  to  Nature's  majesty  I 


MODERN  GREECE. 


And  who  can  rove  o'er  Grecian  shores, 

nor  feel,  [magic  steal  ? 

Soft  o'er  his   inmost   heart,   their  secret 

xxvin. 

Yet  many  a  sad  reality  is  there, 

That  Fancy's  bright  illusions  cannot  veil. 

Pure  laughs  the  light,  and  balmy  breathes 

the  air, 

But  Slavery's  mien  will  tell  its  bitter  tale  ; 
And  there  not  Peace,  but  Desolation, 

throws 

Delusive  quiet  o'er  full  many  a  scene, 
Deep  as  the  brooding  torpor  of  repose 
That   follows  where    the  earthquake's 

track  hath  been  ;  [lies, 

Or  solemn  calm,  on  Ocean's  breast  that 

When    sinks  the  storm,  and  death  has 

bushed  the  seaman's  cries. 


Hast  thou  beheld  some  sovereign  spirit, 
.  hurled  [sphere, 

By  Fate's  rude  tempest  from  its  radiant 
Doomed  to  resign  the  homage  of  a  world, 
For  Pity's  deepest  sigh,  and  saddest  tear  ? 
Oh  I  hast  thou  watched  the  awful  wreck 

of  mind, 

That  weareth  still  a  glory  in  decay  ? 
Seen  all  that  dazzles  and  delights  man- 
kind—  [Prey> 
Thought,  science,  genius,  to  the  storm  a 
And  o'er  the  blasted  tree,  the  withered 
ground,                   [flourish  round  ? 
Despair's  wild  nightshadespread,  anddarkly 

XXX. 

So  mayst  thou  gaze,  in  sad  and  awe- 
struck thought, 

On  the  deep  fall  of  that  yet  lovely  clime: 
Such  there  the  ruin  Time  and  Fate  have 
wrought,  [sublime. 

So  changed  the  bright,  the  splendid,  the 
There  the  proud  monuments  of  Valour's 

name, 

The  mighty  works  Ambition  piled  onbJgh, 

The  rich  remains  by  Art  bequeathed  to 

Fame —  [symmetry, 

Grace,  beauty,  grandeur,  strength,  and 

Blend  in  decay  ;  while  all  that  yet  is  fair 

Seems  only  spared  to  tell  how  much  hath 

perished  there ! 

XXXI.  t 

There,  while  around  lie  mingling  in  the 

dust  [o'ergrown 

fbe  column's  graceful  shaft,  with  weeds 


The  mouldering  torso,  the  forgotten  bust, 
The  warrior's  urn,  the  altar's  mossy  stone; 
Amidst  the  loneliness  of  shattered  fanes, 
Still  matchless  monuments  of  other  years, 
O'er  cypress  groves,  or  solitary  plains, 
Its  eastern  form  the  minaret  proudly 

rears: 

As  on  some  captive  city's  ruined' wall 
The  victor's  banner  waves,  exulting  o'er  its 

fall 

XXXII. 

Still,  where  that  column  of  the  mosque 

aspires,  [waste, 

Landmark  of  slavery,  towering  o'er  the 
There  Science  droops,  the  Muses  hush 

their  lyres 

And  o'er  the  blooms  of  fancy  and  of  taste 
Spreads  the  chill  blight,— as  in  that 

orient  isle,  [around, 

Where  the  dark  upas  taints  the  gale 
Within  its  precincts  not  a  flower  may 

smile, 

Nor  dew  nor  sunshine  fertilize  the  ground ; 
Nor  wild  birds'  music  float  on  zephyr's 

breath,  [death 

But  all  is  silence  round,  and  solitude,  and 

XXXIII. 

Far  other  influence  poured  the  Crescent's 
light  [away , 

O'er  conquered  realms,  in  ages  passed 
Full  and  alone  it  beamed,  intensely  bright, 
While  distant  climes  in  midnight  dark- 
ness lay.  [and  shades, 
Then  rose  th'  Alhambra,  with  its  founts 
Fair  marble  halls,  alcoves,  and  orange 
bowers :  [arcades, 
Its    sculptured    lions,    richly    wrought 
Ae'rial  pillars,  and  enchanted  towers  ; 
Light,  splendid,  wild,  as  some  Arabian 
tale                                     [the  gale. 
Would  picture  fairy  domes,  that  fleet  before 

xxxiv. 

Then  fostered  genius  lent  each;Caliph's 

throne 

Lustre  barbaric  pomp  could  ne'er  attain; 
And  stars  unnumbered  o'er  the  orient 

shone,  [fane.* 

Bright  as  that  Pleiad,  sphered  in  Mecca's 
From  Bagdat's  palaces  the  choral  strains 
Rose  and  re-echoed  to  the  desert's  bound, 


'*  The  works  of  the  seven  most  famous  Arabian 
poets  are  hung  round  the  mosque  at  Mecca,  ?ud 
are  called  the  Arabian  Pleiades. 


MODERN  GREECE. 


And  Science,  wooed  on  Egypt's  burning 

plains,  [crowned ; 

Reared  her  majestic  head  with    glory 

And  the  wild  Muses  breathed  romantic 

lore  [shore. 

From  Syria's  palmy  groves  to  Andalusia's 

XXXV. 

Those  years  have  passed  in  radiance — 

they  have  past 

As  sinks  the  day-star  in  the  tropic  main ; 
His  parting  beams  no  soft  reflection  cast, 
They  bum — are  quenched — and  deepest 

shadows  reign.  [trace, 

And  Fame  and  Science  have  not  left  a 
In  the  vast  regions  of  the  Moslem's 

power,— 

Regions,  to  intellect  a  desert  space, 
A  wild  without  a  fountain  'or  a  flower, 
Where   towers   oppression  'midst    the 
deepening  glooms,  [the  tombs. 

As  dark  and  lone  ascends  the  cypress  'midst 

XXXVI. 

\las  for  thee,  fair  Greece !  when  Asia] 
poured 

Her  fierce  fanatics  to  Byzantium's  wall ; 

When  Europe  sheathed,  in  apathy,  her 
sword, 

And  heard  unmoved  the  fated  city's  call. 

No  bold  crusaders  ranged  their  serried 
line  [throne ; 

Of  spears  and  banners  round  a  falling 

And  thou,  O  last  and  noblest  Constan- 
tino I  '  [alone. 

Didst  meet  the  storm  unshrinking  and 

Oh  1  blest  to  die  in  freedom,  though  in 

vain,  [and  not  the  chain  ! 

Ihine  empire's  proud  exchange  the  grave, 


Hushed  is  Byzantium — 'tis  the  dead  oi 

night — 

The  closing  night  of  that'  imperial  race  I 
And  all  is  vigil — but  the  eye  of  light 
Shall  soon  unfold,  a  wilder  scene  to  trace  1 
There  is  a  murmuring  stillness  on  the 

train  [to  die ; 

Thronging  the  midnight  streets,  at  mom 
And  to  the  cross,  in  fair  Sophia's  fane, 
For  the  last  time  is  raised  Devotion's 

eye; 
And,   in  his  heart  while  faith's  bright 

visions  rise, 
There  kneels  the  high-souled  prince,  tht 

summoned  of  the  skies. 


xxxvm. 

Day  breaks  in  light  and  glory— 'tis  the 

hour  [calls— 

Of  confiJct  and  of  fate — the  war-note 
Despair  hath  lent  a  stern,  delirious  power 
To  the  brave  few  that  guard  the  rampart 

walls.  [peal 

Far  over  Marmora's  waves  th'  artillery's 
Proclaims  an  empire's  doom  in  every 

note ;  [of  steel, 

Tambour  and  trumpet  swell  the  clash 
Round  spire  and  dome  the  clouds  of 

battle  float ;  [cent's  host, 

From  camp  and  wave  rush  on  the  Cres- 

And  the  Seven  Towers  are  scaled,  and  all 

is  won  and  lost 


Then,  Greece  I  the  tempest  rose,  that 

burst  on  thee,  [sage ! 

Land  of  the  bard,  the  warrior,  and  the 
Ob  1  where  were  then  thy  sons,  the  great, 

the  free,  [to  age? 

Whose  deeds  are  guiding-stars  from  age 
Though  firm  thy  battlements  of  crags  and 

snows,  [pride. 

And  bright  the  memory  of  thy  days  of 
In  mountain   might   though  Corinth's 

fortress  rose, 

On,  unresisted,  rolled  th'  invading  tide  I 
Oh  I  vain  the  rock,  the  rampart,  and  the 

tower,  [unconquered  power. 

If  Freedom  guard  them  not  with  Mind's 


Where  Were  th'  avengers  then,  whore 

viewless  might 

Preserved  inviolate  their  awful  fane, 
When   through   the    steep    defiles   to 

Delphi's  height,  [train  ? 

In  martial  splendour  poured  the  Persian's 
Then  did  those  mighty  and  mysterious 

Powers,  [wake, 

Armed  with  the  elements,  to  vengeance 
Call  the  dread  storms  to  darken  round 

their  towers,  [thunders  break  ; 

Hurl   down   the   rocks,    and   bid    the 
Till  far  around,  with  deep  and  fearful 

clang,  [Parnassus  rang. 

Sounds  of  unearthly  war   through  wild 


Where  was  the  spirit  of  the  victor-throng 
Whose  tombs  are  glorious  by  Scaman- 
der's  tide,  [song. 

Whose  names  are  bright  in  everlasting 
The  lords  of  war,  the  praised,  the  deified? 


MODERN  QREEOB. 


Where  he,  the  hero  of  a  thousand  lays,. 

Who  from  the  dead  at  Marathon  arose 

All  armed  ,  and  beaming  on  the  Athe- 
nians' gaze, 

A  battle-meteor,  guided  to  their  foes? 

Or  they  whose  forms,  to  Alaric's  awe- 
struck eye,  [panoply? 
Hovering  o'er  Athens,  blazed  in  airy 

XLH. 

Ye  slept,  O  heroes !  chief  ones  of  the 
earth  I  [slept. 

High   demi-gods  of  ancient  days  1    ye 
There  lived  no  spark  of  your  ascendent 
worth,  [swept ; 

When  o'er  your  land  the  victor  Moslem 
No  patriot  then  the  sons  of  freedom  led, 
In  mountain-pass  devotedly  to  die  ; 
The  martyr-spirit  of  resolve  was  fled, 
And  the  high  soul's  unconquered  buoy- 
ancy ;  [plains, 
And  by  your  graves,  and  on  your  battle- 
Warriors  I  your  children  knelt,  to  wear  the 
stranger's  chains. 

ran. 

^ow  have  your  trophies  vanished,  and 

your  homes  .  [scarce  remain 
Are  mouldered  from  the  earth,  while 
E'en  the  faint  traces  of  the  ancient  tombs 
That  mark  where  sleep  the  slayers  or  the 

slain.  [flown, 

Your  deeds  are  with  the  days  of  glory 
The  lyres  are  hushed  that  swelled  your 

fame  afar,  [gone, 

The  halls  that  echoed  to  their  sounds  are 
Perished  the  conquering  weapons  of  your 

war; 

And  if  a  mossy  stone  your  names  retain, 
'Tis  but  to  tell  your  sons,  for  them  ye  died 

in  vain. 

XUV. 

Yet,  where  some  lout    sspulchral  relic 

stands,  [yet, 

That  with  those  names  tradition  hallows 

Oft  shall  thewandering  son  of  other  lands 

Linger  in  solemn  thought  and  hushed 

regret.  [spot 

And  still  have  legends  marked  the  lonely 

Where  low  the  dust  of  Agamemnon  lies ; 

And  shades  of  kings  and  leaders  unforgot, 

Hovering  around,  to  Fancy's  visions  rise. 

Souls  of  the  heroes !  seek  your  rest  again, 

Nor  mark  how  changed*  the  realms  thai 

saw  your  glory's  reign. 


XLV. 

Lo,    where   th'    Albanian    spreads  hfc 

despot  sway  [plains, 

O'er  Thessaly's  rich  vales  and  glowing 
Whose  sons  in  sullen  abjectness  obey, 
Nor  lift  the  hand  indignant  at  its  chains  : 
Oh  I  doth  the  land  that  gave  Achilles 

birth, 

And  many  a  chief  of  old  illustrious  linet 
Yield  not  one  spirit  of  unconquered  worth, 
To  kindle  those  that  now  in  bondage 

pine?  [breath, 

No  I    on   its   mountain-air   is  slavery's 

And  terror  chills  the  hearts  whose  uttered 

plaints  were  death. 


Yet  if  thy  light,  fair  Freedom,   rested 

there,  [clime, 

How  rich  in  charms  were  that  romantic 
With  streams,  and  woods,  and  pastoral 

valleys  fair,  [sublime ! 

And  walled  with  mountains,  haughtily 
Heights  that  might  well  be  deemed  the 

Muses'  reign,  [skies, 

Since  claiming  proud  alliance  with  the 
They  lose  in  loftier  spheres  their  wild 

domain. 

Meet  home  for  those  retired  divinities 
That  love,  where  nought  of  earth  may 

e'er  intrude,  [tude. 

Brightly  to  dwell  on  high,  in  lonely  sancti- 


There  in  rude  grandeur  daringly  ascends 
Stern  Pindus,  rearing  many  a  pine-clad 
height ;  [blends, 

He  with  the  clouds  his  bleak  dominion 
Frowning  o'er  vales  in  woodland  verdure 

bright. 

Wild  and  august  in  consecrated  pride, 
There   through   the  dee,>-blue   heaven 
Olympus  towers,  [hide 

Girdled  with  mists,  light-floating  as  to 
The  rock-built  palace  of  immortal  powers ; 
Where  far  on  high  the  sunbeam  finds  re- 
pose, [snows. 
Amidst  th'  eternal  pomp  of  forests  and_of 

XLVHI. 

Those  savage  cliffs  and  solitudes  might 
seem  [would  roam ; 

The  chosen  haunts  where  Freedom's  foot 

She  loves  to  dwell  by  glen  and  torrent- 
stream, 

And  rnnke  the  rocky  fastnesses  her  home 


MODERN  GREECE. 


57 


And  in  the  rushing  of  the  mountain  flood, 

In  the  wild  eagle's  solitary  cry, 

In  sweeping  winds,  that  peal  through 

cave  and  wood, 

There  is  a  voice  of  stern  sublimity, 
That  swells  her  spirit  to  a  <  loftier  mood 
Of  solemn  joy  severe,  of  power,  of  fortitude. 

XLIX. 

But  from  those  hills  the  radiance  of  her 
smile  [afar ; 

Hath  vanished  long,  her  step  hath  fled 
O'er  Suli's  frowning  rocks  she  paused 
awhile,  [tain-war. 

Kindling  the  watch-fires  of  the  moun- 
And  brightly  glowed  her  ardent  spirit 
there,     '  [tress 

Still  brightest  'midst  privation :  o'er  dis- 
It  cast  romantic  splendour,  and  despair 
But  fanned  that  beacon  of  the  wilder- 
ness ; 

And  rude  ravine,  and  precipice,  and  dell, 
,  Sent  their  deep  echoes  forth,  her  rallying 
voice  to  swell. 

L. 

Dark  children  of  the  hills  I  'twas  then  ye 
wrought  [grand ; 

Deeds  of  fierce  daring,  rudely,  sternly 
As  'midst  your  craggy  citadels  ye  fought, 
And  women  mingled  with  your  warrior- 
band. 

Then  on  the  cliff  the  frantic  mother  stood 
High  o'er  the  river's  darkly-rolling  wave, 
And  hurled,  in  dread  delirium,  to  the 

flood, 

Her  free-born  infant,  ne'er  to  be  a  slave. 
For  all  was  lost — all,  save  the  power  to 

die 
The  wild  indignant  death  of  savage  liberty. 


Now  is  that  strife  a  tale  of  vanished  days, 
With  mightier  things  forgotten  soon  to 

lie; 

Yet  oft  hath  minstrel  sung,  in  lofty  lays, 
Deeds  less   adventurous,   energies  less 

high.  [still 

And  the  dread  struggle's  fearful  memory 
O'er  each  wild   rock   a  wilder  aspect 

throws ;  [hill, 

Sheds  darker  shadows  o'er  the  frowning 

More  solemn  quiet  o'er  the  glen's  repose ; 

Lends  to  therustling  pines  a  deeper  moan, 

And  the  hoarse  river's  voice  a  murmur  not 

its  own. 


tn. 

For  stillness  now— the  stillness  of  the 

dead,  [scene, 

Hath  wrapt  that  conflict's  lone  and  awful 
And  man's  forsaken  homes,  in  ruin 

spread,  [been. 

Tell  where  the  storming  of  the  cliffc  hath 
And  there,  o'er  wastes  magnificently  rude, 
What  race  may  rove,  unconscious  of  the 

chain?  [dued, 

Those  realms  have  now  no  desert  unsub- 
Where  Freedom's  bamw  may  be  reared 

again .  [fame, 

Sunk  are  the  ancient  dwellings  of  her 

The  children  of  her  sons  inherit  but  their 

name. 

LIII. 

Go,  seek  proud  Sparta's  monuments  and 

fanes !  [lie ; 

In  scattered  fragments  o'er  the  vale  they 
Of  all  they  were  not  e'en  enough  remains 
To  lend  their  fall  a  mournful  majesty. 
Birth-place  of  those  whose  names  we  first 

revered 

In  song  and  story — temple  of  the  free  I 
O  thou,  the  stem,  the  haughty,  and  tKe 

feared, 

Are  such  thy  relics,  and  can  this  be  thee  ? 
Thou  shouldst  have  left  a  giant  wreck 

behind,  [mankind. 

And  e'en  in  ruin  claimed  the  wonder  of 

LTV. 

For  thine  were  spirits  cast  in  other  mould 
Than  all  beside — and  proved  by  ruder 

test; 
They  stood  alone — the  proud,  the  firm, 

the  bold, 

With  the  same  seal  indelibly  imprest. 
Theirs  were  no  bright  varieties  of  mind, 
One  image  stamped  the  rough,  colossal 

race,  [kind, 

In  rugged  grandeur  frowning  o'er  man- 
Stern,  and  disdainful  of  each  milder 

grace ;  [tower, 

As  to  the  sky  some  mighty  rock  may 

Whose  front  can  brave  the  storm,  but  will 

not  rear  the  flower. 

LV. 

Such  were  thy  sons — their  life  a  battle- 
day  !  [die  I 

Their  youth  one  lesson  how  for  thee  to 

Closed  is  that  task,  and  they  have  passed 
away  ,  [high. 

Like  softer  beings  trained  to  aims  less 


68 


MODERN  GEEEOE. 


Yet  bright  on   earth   their  fame  who 

proudly  fell,  [thy  cause, 

True  to  their  shields,  the  champions  of 

Whose  funeral  column  bade  the  stranger 

tell 

How  died  the  brave, obedient  to  thy  laws  I 
O  lofty  mother  of  heroic  worth, 
How  oouldst  thou  h've  to  bring  a  meaner 
offspring  forth  ? 

LVl. 

Hadst  thou  but  perished  with-  the  free, 

nor  known  [by, 

A  second  race,  when  Glory's  noon  went 
Then  had  thy  name  in  single  brightness 

shone 

A  watch-word  on  the  helm  of  liberty  I 
Thou  shouldst  have  passed,  with  all  thy 

light  of  fame, 

And  proudly  sunk  in  ruins,  not  in  chains. 
But  slowly  set  thy  star  midst  clouds  of 

shame, 

And  tyrants  rose  amidst  thy  falling  fanes ; 
And  thou,  surrounded  by  thy  warriors' 

graves,  [for  thy  slaves. 

Ilast  drained  the  bitter  cup  once  mingled 


Now  all  is  o'er — for  thee  alike  are  flown 
Freedom's  bright  noon,  and  Slavery's 

twilight  cloud  ; 

And  in  thy  fall,  as  in  thy  pride,  alone, 
Deep  solitude  is  round  thee,  as  a  shroud. 
Home  of  Leonidas  !  thy  halls  are  low, 
From  their  cold  altars  have  thy  Lares 
fled,  [or  glow, 

O'er  thee  unmarked  the  sunbeams  fade 
And  wild-flowers  wave,  unbent  by  human 
tread ;  [profound, 

And  midst  thy  silence,  as  the  grave's 
A  voice,  a  step,  would  seem  as  some  un- 
earthly sound. 

LVIII. 

Taygetus  still  lifts  his  awful  brow, 
High  o'er  the  mouldering  city  of  the  dead, 
Sternly  sublime ;  while  o'er  his  robe  of 

snow  [fusions  spread. 

Heaven's  floating  tints  their  warm  suf- 
And  yet  his  rippling  wave  Eurotas  leads 
By  tombs  and  ruins  o'er  the  silent  plain, 
While,  whispering  there,  his  own  wild 

graceful  reeds  [strain 

Rise  as  of  old,  when  hailed  by  classic 
There  the  rose-laurels  still  in  beauty  wave, 
fend  a  frail  shrub  survives  to  bloom  o'er 

Sparta's  grave. 


LtX. 

Oh,  thus  it  is  with  man — a  tree,  afiower, 
While  nations  perish,  still  renews  its  race, 
And  o'er  the  fallen  records  of  his  power 
Spreads  in  wild  pomp,  or  smiles  in  fairy 

grace.  [away, 

The  laurel  shoots  when  those  have  past 
Once  rivals  for  its  crown,  the  brave,  the 

free; 

The  rose  is  flourishing  o'er  beauty's  clay, 
The  myrtle  blows  when  love  hath  ceased 

to  be ;  [are  fled, 

Green  waves  the  bay  when  song  and  bard 

And  all  that  round  us  blooms,  is  blooming 

o'er  the  dead. 

UK. 

And  still  the  olive  spreads  Its  foliage 

round 

Morea's  fallen  sanctuaries  and  towers. 
Once  its  green  boughs  Minerva's  votaries 
crowned,  [powers. 

Deemed  a  meet  offering   for   celestial 
The  suppliant's  hand  its  holy  branches 
bore ;  [head  ; 

They  waved  around  th'  Olympic  victor's 
And,  sanctified  by  many  a  rite  of  yore, 
Its  leaves  the  Spartans  honoured  bier 
o'erspread.  [and  hill 

Those  rites  have  vanished — but  o'er  vale 
Its  fruitful  groves  arise,  revered  and  hal- 
lowed still. 


Where  now  thy  shrines,  Eleusis  I  where 
thy  fane  [high  ? 

Of  fearful  visions,  mysteries  wild  and 
The  pomp  of  rites,  the  sacrifical  tram, 
The  long  procession's  awful  pageantry? 
Quenched  is  the  torch  of  Ceres*— all 
around  [reign ; 

Decay  hath  spread  the  stillness  of  her 
There  never  more  shall  choral  hymns  re- 
sound 

O'er  the  hushed  earth  and  solitary  main, 

Whose  wave  from  Salamis  deserted  flows, 

To  bathe  a  silent  shore  of  desolate  repose. 


*  It  was  customary  at  Elcusis,  on  the  fifth 
day  of  the  festival,  for  men  and  women  to  ran 
about  with  torches  in  their  hands,  and  also  to 
dedicate  torches  to  Ceres,  and  to  contend  who 
should  present  the  largest.  This  was  done  in 
memory  of  the  urney  of  Ceres  in  search  oi 
Proserpine,  dun.  hich  she  was  lighted  by  a 
torch  kindled  ir  flames  of  Etna.* -PoRTFH1? 
A  xtiquitits  of  if 


MODERN  OREEOE. 


59 


And  oh  I  vc  secret  and  terrific  powers, 
Dark  oracles  1  in  depth  of  groves  that 

dwelt,  [bowers, 

How  are  they  sunk,  the  altars  of  your 
Where  superstition  trembled  as  she  knelt ! 
Ye,  the  unknown,  the  viewless  ones  I  that 

made  [wave ; 

The  elements  your  voice,  the  wind  and 
Spirits !  whose  influence  darkened  many 

a  shade, 

Mysterious  visitants  of  fount  and  cave  I 
How  long  your  power  the  awe-struck 

nations  swayed, 
How  long  earth  dreamt  of  you,  and  shud- 

deringly  obeyed  I 


And  say,  what  marvel,  in  those  early 

days, 
While  yet  the  light  of  heaven-born  truth 

was  not ; 

If  man  around  him  cast  a  fearful  gaze, 
Peopling  with  shadowy  powers  each  dell 

and  grot  ? 

Awful  is  nature  in  her  savage  forms, 
Her  solemn  voice  commanding  in  its 

might,  [storms, 

And  mystery  then  was  in  ihe  rush  of 
The  gloom  of  woods,  the  majesty  of  night; 
And  mortals  heard  fate's  language  in  the 

blast,  [toms  of  the  past  I 

And  reared  your  forest-shrines,  ye  phan- 

LXIV. 

Then  through  the  foliage  not  a  breeze 

might  sigh 

But  with  prophetic  sound — a  waving  tree, 
A  meteor  flashing  o'er  the  summer  sky, 
A  bird's  wild  flight,  revealed  the  things  to 

be.  [veyed 

All  spoke  of  unseen  natures,  and  con- 
Their  inspiration ;  still  they  hovered 

round,  [the  shade, 

Hallowed  the  temple,  whispered  through 
Pervaded  loneliness,  gave  soul  to  sound  ; 
Of  them  the  fount,  the  forest,  murmured 

still,  [step  on  the  hill. 

Hieir  voice  was  in  the  stream,  their  foot- 

LXVi 

Now  is  the  train  of  superstition  flown, 
Unearthly  beings  walk  on  earth  no  more ; 
The  deep  wind  swells  with  no  portentous 

tone, 
.The  rustling  wood  breathes  no  fatidic  lore. 


Fled  are  the  phantoms  of  Livadia's  cave, 
There  dwell  no  shadows,  but  of  crag  and 

steep ; 

Fount  of  Oblivion  !  in  thy  gushing  wave, 
That  murmurs  nigh,   those  powers  of 

terror  sleep.  [clime, 

Oh  1  that  such  dreams  alone  had  fled  that 

But  Greece  is  changed  in  all  that  could  be 

changed  by  time  I 


Her  skies  are   those  whence  many  a 

mighty  bard  [beams ; 

Caught  inspiration,  glorious  as  their 
Her  hills  the  same'  that  heroes  died  to 

guard,  [dreams  I 

Her  vales,  that  fostered  Art's  divinest 
But  that  bright  spirit  o'er  the  land  that 

shone,  [poured, 

And  all  around  pervading  influence 
That  lent  the  harp  of  ^Eschylus  its  tone, 
And  proudly  hallowed  Lacedsemon's 

sword,  [stone, 

And  guided  Phidias  o'er  the  yielding 

With  them  its  ardours  lived — with  them  iti 

light  is  flown. 

LXVII. 

Thebes,  Corinth,  Argos ! — ye,  renowned 

of  old,  [name? 

Where  are  your  chiefs  of  high  romantic 
How  soon  the  tale  of  ages  may  be  told  I 
A  page,  a  verse,  records  the  fall  of  fame, 
The  work  of  centuries — we  gaze  on  you, 
Oh,  cities !  once  the  glorious  and  the  free, 
The  lofty  tales  that  charmed  our  youth 

renew, 
And  wondering  ask,  if  these  their  scenes 

could  be? 

Search  for  theclassic  fane,  the  regal  tomb, 
And  find  the  mosque  alone — a  record  of 

their  doom  1 

LXVIII. 

How  oft  hath  war  his  host  of  spoiler? 

poured, 

Fair  Elis  !  o'er  thy  consecrated  vales  ? 
There  have  the  surtbeams  glanced  on 

spear  and  sword, 

And  banners  floated  on  the  balmy  gales. 
Once  didst  thou  smile,  secure  in  sancti- 

tude, 

As  some  enchanted  isle  mid  stormy  seas ; 
On  thee  no  hostile  footstep  might  inti-ude, 
And  pastoral  sounds  alone  were  on  thy 

breeze. 


GEEEOE. 


Forsaken  home  of  peace  1  that  spell  is 

broke, 

Thou  too  hast  heard  the  storm,  and  bowed 
beneath  the  yoke. 

LXIX. 

And  through  Arcadia's  wild  and  lone 
retreats  [strain 

Far  other  sounds  have  echoed  than  the 
Of  faun  and  dryad,  from  their  woodland 
seats,  [swain  I 

Or  ancient  reed  of  peaceful  mountain- 
There,    though  at  times  Alpheus   yet 
surveys,  [dance, 

On  his  green  banks  renewed,  the  classic 
And  nymph-like  forms,  and  wild  me- 
lodious lays, 

Revive  the  sylvan  scenes  of  old  romance ; 

Yet  brooding  fear  and  dark  suspicion 

dwell,  [cave,  and  dell. 

'Midst  Pan's  deserted  haunts,  by  fountain, 

LXX. 

But  thou,  fair  Attica !  whose  rocky  bound 
All  art  and  nature's  richest  gifts  en- 
shrined, [round 
Thou  little  sphere,  whose  soul-illumined 
Concentrated  each  sunbeam  of  the  mind ; 
Who,  as  the  summit  of  some  Alpine 
height  [day, 
Glows  earliest,  latest  with  the  blush  of 
Didst  first  imbibe  the  splendours  of  the 

light, 

And  smile  the  longest  in  its  lingering  ray ; 
Oh  1  let  us  gaze  on  thee,  and  fondly  deem 
The  past  awhile  restored,  the  present  but  a 
dream. 

LXXI. 

Let  Fancy's  vivid  hues  awhile  prevail — 
Wake  at  her  call — be  all  thou  wert  once 

more  1  [gale ! 

Hark,  hymns  of  triumph  swell  on  every 
Lo,  bright  processions  move  along  thy 

shore ! 

Again  thy  temples,  'midst  the  olive-shade, 
Lovely  in  chaste  simplicity  arise ; 
And  graceful  monuments,  in  grove  and 

glade,  [skies ; 

Catch  the  warm  tints  of  thy  resplendent 
And  sculptured    forms,    of   high    and 

heavenly  mien,  [bright  scene. 

In  their  calm  beauty  smile,  around  the  sun- 

LXXH. 

Again   renewed   by  thought's   creative 

spells,  [towers: 

In  all   her   pomp  thy  city,    Theseus' 


Within,  around  (he  light  of  glory  dwells 

On  art's   fair   fabrics,    wisdom's   holy 

bowers.  [ascend, 

There  marble  fanes  in  finished  grace 

The  pencil's  world  of  life  and  beauty 

glows ;  [blend, 

Shrines,  pillars,  porticoes,  in  grandeur 

Rich  with  the  trophies  of  barbaric  foes  ; 

And  groves  of  platane  wave  in  verdant 

pride,  [tide. 

The  sage's  blest  retreats,  by  calm  Ihssus' 

LXXIII. 

Bright  as  that  fairy  vision  of  the  wave, 
Raised  by  the  magic  of  Morgana's  wand, 
On  summer  seas  that  undulating  lave 
Romantic  Sicily's  Arcadian  strand ; 
That  pictured  scene  of  airy  colonnades, 
Light  palaces,  in  shadowy  glory  drest, 
Enchanted  groves,    and   temples,  and 

arcades,  [breast ; 

Gleaming  and  floating  on  the  ocean's 
Athens!   thus  fair  the  dream  of  thee 

appears,  [of  years. 

As  Fancy's  eye  pervades  the  veiling  cloud 


Still  be  that  cloud  withdrawn — oh  !  mark 
on  high,  [graced, 

Crowning  yon  hill,  with  temples  richly 
That  fane,  august  in  perfect  symmetry,* 
The  purest  model  of  Athenian  taste. 
Fair  Parthenon  I  thy  Doric  pillars  rise 
In  simple  dignity,  thy  marble's  huo 
Unsullied  shines,   relieved  by  brilliant 
skies,  [ethereal  blue;. 

That   round    thee   spread    their  deep 
And  art  o'er  all  thy  light  proportions 
,      throws 
The  harmony  of  grace,  the  beauty  of  repose. 

LXXV. 

And  lovely  o'er  thee  sleeps  the  sunny 

glow,  [reign, 

When  morn  and  eve  in  tranquil  splendour 
And  on  thy  sculptures,  as  they  smile, 

bestow 

Hues  that  the  pencil  emulates  in  vain. 
Then  the  fair  forms  by  Phidias  wrought, 

unfold 

Each  latent  grace,  developing  in  light ; 
Catch  from  soft  clouds  of  purple  and  of 

gold, 

Each  tint  that  passes,  tremulously  bright ; 
And    seem    indeed   whate'er    devotion 

det    s,  [with  its  beams. 

While  so  suffused  with  heaven,  so  mingling 


MODERN  GREECE. 


61 


LXXVT. 

Bttt  oh!  what  words  the  vision  may 

portray,  [shrine  ? 

The  form  of  sanctitude  that  guards  thy 
There  stands  thy  goddess,  robed  in  war's 

array, 

Supremely  glorious,  awfully  divine ) 
With  spear  and  helm  she  stands,  and 

flowing  vest,  [wrought, 

And  sculptured  aegis,  to  perfection 
And  on  each  heavenly  lineament  imprest, 
Calmly  sublime,  the  majesty  of  thought ; 
The  pure  intelligence,  the  chaste  repose, 
All  that  a  poet's  dream  around  Minerva 

throws. 

LXXVll. 

Bright  age  of  Pericles  I  let  fancy  still 
Through  time's  deep  shadows  all  thy 

splendour  trace,  [skill 

And  in  each  work  of  art's  consummate 
Hail  the  free  spirit  of  thy  lofty  race. 
That  spirit,  roused  by  every  proud  reward 
That  hope  could  picture,  glory  could 

bestow, 

Fostered  by  all  the  sculptor  and  the  bard 
Could  give  of  immortality  below. 
Thus  were  thy  heroes  formed,  and  o'er 

their  name,  [fame. 

Thus  did   thy  genius  shed  imperishable 

LXXVIII. 

Mark  in  the  thronged  Ceramicus,  the 
train  [brave : 

Of  mourners  weeping  o'er  the  martyred 
Proud  be  the  tears  devoted  to  the  slain, 
Holy  the  amaranth  strewed  upon  their 
grave !  [daims 

And  hark— unrivalled    eloquence  pro- 
Their  deeds,  their  trophies  with  trium- 
phant voice !  [names ! 
Hark — Pericles  records  -their  honoured 
Sons  of  the  fallen,  in  their  lot  rejoice : 
What  hath  life  brighter  than  so  bright  a 
doom  ?                        [of  the  tomb  ? 
What  power  hath  fate  to  soil  the  garlands 

LXXIX. 

Praise  to  the  valiant  dead !  for  them  doth 

art  [forth ; 

Exhaust  her  skill,  their  triumphs  bodying 

Theirs  are  enshrined  names,  and  every 

heart  [worth. 

Shall  bear  the  blazoned  impress  of  their 

Bright  on  the  dreams  of  youth  their  fame 

shall  rise,  ("cord ; 

Their  fields  of  fight  shall  epic  song  re- 


And,  when  the  voice  of  battle  Tends  the 
skies,  [ing  word ! 

Their  name  shall  be  their  country's  rally- 
While  fane  and  column  rise  august  to  tell 
How  Athens  honours  those  for  her  who 
proudly  fell. 

LXXX. 

City  of  Theseus  !  bursting  on  the  mind, 
Thus  dost  thou  rise,  in'all  thy  glory  fled  1 
Thus  guarded  by  the  mighty  of  mankind. 
Thus  hallowed  by  the  memory  of  the 

dead : 

Alone  in  beauty  and  renown — a  scene 
Whose  tints  are  drawn  from  freedom's 

.  loveliest  ray. , 

Tis'  but  a  vision  now — yet  thou  hast  been 

More  than  the  brightest  vision  might 

'portray ;  [fraught 

And  every  stone,  with  but  a  vestige 

Of  thee,  hath  latent  power  to  wake  some 

lofty  thought. 

LXXXI. 

Fallen  are  thy  fabrics,  that  so  oft  have 

rung 

To  choral  melodies,  and  tragic  lore ,' 
Now  is  the  lyre  of  Sophocles  unstrung, 
The  song  that  hailed  Harmodius  peals 

no  more. 

Thy  proud  Piraeus  is  a  desert  strand, 
Thy  stately  shrines  are  mouldering  on 

their  hill,  [hand. 

Closed  are  the  triumphs  of  the  sculptor's 
The  magic  voice  of  eloquence  is  still ; 
Minerva  s  veil  is  rent — her  image  gone, 
Silent  the  sage's  bower — the  warrior's  tomb 

o'erthrown. 

Lxxxn. 

Yet  in  decay  thine  exquisite  remains 
Wondering  we  view,  and  silently  revere. 
As  traces  left  on  earth's  forsaken  plains 
By  vanished  beings  of  a  nobler  sphere? 
Not  all  the  old  magnificence  of  Rome, 
All  that  dominion  there  hath  left  to  time. 
Proud  Coliseum,  or  commanding  dome. 
Triumphal  arch,  or  obelisk  sublime, 
Can  bid  such  reverence  o'er  the  spirit 
steal,  [plastic  seal. 

As  aught  by  thee   imprest  with  beauty's 

LXXXIII. 

.  Though  still  the  empress  of  tiie  urn- 
burnt  waste, 
Palmyra  rises,  desolately  grand  - 


MODERN  GREECE. 


Though  with  rich  gold  ar.d  massy  sculp- 
ture graced, 

Commanding  still,  Persepolis  may  stand 
In  haughty  solitude — though  sacred  Nile 
The  firstborn  temples  of  the  world  sur- 
veys, 

And  many  an  awful  and  stupendous  pile 
Thebes  of  the  hundred  gates  e'en  yet  dis- 
plays ; 

City  of  Pericles !  oh  who,  like  thee, 
Can  teach  how  fair  the  works  of  mortal 
hand  may  be  ? 

LXXXTV. 

Thou  led  st  the   way  to  that  illumined 

sphere  [thence  didst  bear, 

Where  sovereign  beauty  dwells ;  and 
Oh,  still  triumphant  in  that  high  career  ! 
Bright  archetypes  of  all  the  grand  and 

fair.  [hath  flown 

And  still  to  thee  th'  enlightened  mind 
As  to  her  country, — tbou  hast  been  to 

earth  [throne, 

A  cynosure,— and,  e'en  from  victory's 
Imperial  Rome  gave  homage  to  thy 

worth  , 

And  nations,  rising  to  their  fame  afar, 
Sail  to  thy  model  turn,  as  seamen  to  their 

star. 

LXXXV. 

Glory  to  those  whose  relics  thus  arrest 
The  gaze  of  ages  1  Glory  to  the  free  I 
For  they,  they  only,  could  have  thus 

imprest 

Their  mighty  image  on  the  years  to  be  ! 
Empires  and  cities  in  oblivion  lie, 
Grandeur  may  vanish,  conquest  be  for- 
got,— [die, 
To  leave  on  earth  renown  that  cannot 
Of  high-souled  genius  is  th'  unrivalled 

lot  [shown 

Honour  to  thee,  O  Athens  I  thou  hast 

What  mortals  may  attain,  and  seized  the 

palm  alone. 

LXXXVL 
Oh !   live    there   those  who  view  with 

scornful  eyes  [prime? 

All  that  attests  the  brightness  of  thy 
Yes  ;  they  who  dwell  beneath  thy  lovely 

skies,  [clime  I 

And  breathe  th'  Inspiring  ether  of  thy 
Their  path  is  o'er  the  mightiest  of  the 

dead,  [noblest  arts ; 

Their  homes  are  'midst  the  works  oi 
Yet  all  around  their  gaze,  beneath  their 

tread,  [imparts. 

Not  one  proud  thrill  tf  loftier 


Such  are  the  conquerors  of  Minerva  S 

land,  [of  his  hand  I 

Where  Genius  first  revealed  the  triumphs 

LXXXVII. 

For  them  in  vain  the  glowing  light  may 

smile  [to  shed, 

O'er  the  pale  marble,  colouring  s  warmth 
And  in  chaste  beauty  many  a  sculptured 

pile 

Still  o'er  the  dust  of  heroes  lift  its  head. 
No  patriot  feeling  binds  them  to  the  soil, 
Whose  tombs  and  shrines  their  fathers 

have  not  reared  ;  [tneir  toil 

Their  glance  is  cold  indifference,  and 
But  to  destroy  what  ages  have  revered, 
As  if  exulting  sternly  to  erase 
Whate'er  might  prove  that  land  had  nursed 

a  nobler  race. 

LXXXVIll. 

And  who  may  grieve  that,  rescued  from 

their  hands, 

Spoilers  of  excellence  and  foes  to  art, 
Thy  relics,  Athens  !  borne  to  other  lands, 
Claim  homage  still  to  thee  from  every 

heart  ?  [stranger's  sight, 

Though   now  no   more  th'   exploring 
Fixed  in  deep  reverence  on  Minerva's 

fane,  [of  light, 

Shall  hail,  beneath  their  native  heaven 
All  that  remained  of  forms  adored  in 

vain ;  [the  scene, 

A  few  short  years — and,  vanished  from 

To  blend  with  classic  dust  their  proudest 

lot  had  been. 

LXXXIX. 

Fair  Parthenon !  yet  still  must  Fancy 

weep  fflown. 

For  thee,  thou  work  of  nobler  spirits 
Bright,  as  of  old,  the  sunbeams  o'er  thee 

sleep  [gone  I 

In  all  their  beauty  still — and  thine  is 
Empires  have  sunk  since  thou  wert  first 

revered,  [shrine. 

And   varying  rites  have  sanctified  thy 
The  dust  is  round  thee  of  the  race  that 

reared  [soon  be  thine  I 

Thy  walls ;  and  thou — their  fate  must 
F,ut  when  shall  earth  again  exult  to  see 
V'rions  divine  like  theirs  renewed  in  aught 

like  thee? 

xc. 
Lone  are  thy  pillars  now— each  passing 

gale  [moaned 

Sighs  o'e*  them  as  a  spirit's  voice,  which 


MODERN  GREECE. 


That  ioneiiness.and  told  the  plaintive  tale 
Of  the  bright  synod  once  above  them 

throned. 

Mourn,  graceful  ruin !  on  thy  sacred  hill, 
Thy  gods,  thy  rites,  a  kindred  fate  have 

shared :  [still 

Yet  art  thou  honoured  in  each  fragment 
That  wasting  years  and  barbarous  hands 

had  spared ;  [borne, 

Each  hallowed  stone,  frcm  rapine's  fury 

Shall  wake  bright  dreams  of  tbee  in  ages 

yet  unborn. 

xci. 

Yes !  in  those  fragments,  though  by  time 

defaced,  [mains 

And  rude  insensate  conquerors,  yet  re- 
All  that  may  charm  th'  enlightened  eye 

of  taste,  [reigns. 

On  shores  where  still  inspiring  freedom 
As  vital  fragrance  breathes  from  every 

part 

Of  the  crushed  myrtle,  orthe bruised  rose, 
E'en  thus  th'  essential  energy  of  art 
There  in  each  wreck  imperishably  glows  1 
The  soul  of  Athens  lives  in  every  line, 
Pervading  brightly  still  the  ruins  of  her 

shrine. 

XCTI. 

Mark— on  the  storied  frieze  the  graceful 

train, 

The  holy  festival's  triumphal  throng, 
In  fair  procession,  to  Minerva's  fane, 
With  many  a  sacred  symbol,  move  along. 
There  every  shade  of  bright  existence 

trace, 

The  fire  of  youth,  the  dignity  of  age ; 
The  matron's  calm  austerity  of  grace, 
The  ardent  warrior,  the  benignant  sage ; 
The  nymph's  light  symmetry,  the  chiefs 

proud  mien—  [the  scene. 

Each  ray  of  beauty  caught  and  mingled  in 

XCIII. 

Art  unobtrusive  there  ennobles  form, 
Each  pure  chaste  outlineexquisitelyflows; 
There  e'en  the  steed,  with  bold  expres- 
sion warm, 

Is  clothed  with  majesty,  with  being  glows. 

One  mighty  mind  hath  harmonized  the 

whole ;  [impress  bear ; 

Those  varied  groups  the  same  bright 

One  beam  and  essence  of  exalting  soul 

Lives  in  the  grand,  the  delicate,  the  fair ; 

And  well  that  pageant  of  the  glorious 

dead  [spirits  fled. 

Blends  us  with  nobler  days,  and  loftier 


JCCIV. 

O  conquering  Genius  I  that  couldst  thus 

detain 

The  subtle  graces,  fading  as  they  rise, 
Eternalize  expression's  fleeting  reign, 
Arrest  warm  life  in  all  its  energies, 
And  fix  them  on  the  stone — thy  glorious 

lot 

Might  wake  ambition's  envy,  and  create 
Powers  half  divine:  while  nations  are 

forgot,  Qquished  fate  i 

A  thought,  a  dream  of  thine  hath  van- 
And  when  thy  hand  first  gave  its  wonders 

birth,       [claimed  a  name  on  earth. 
The  realms  that  hail  them  now  scarce 


Wert  thou  some  spirit  of  a  purer  sphere 
But  once  beheld,  and  never  to  return? 
No-ywe  may  hail  again  thy  bright  career 
Again  on  earth  a  kindred  fire  shall  burn  I 
Though  thy  least  relics,  e'en  in  ruin,  beai 
A  stamp  of  Heaven,  that  ne'er  hath  been 

renewed— 

A  light  inherent— let  not  man  despair : 
Still  be'  hope  ardent,  patience  unsubdued ; 
For  still  is  nature  fair,  and  thought  divine, 
And  art  hath  won  a  world  in  models  pure 

as  thine. 

XC71. 

Gaze  on  yon  forms,  corroded  and  de- 
faced— 

Yet  there  the  germ  of  future  glory  lies  f 

Their  virtual  grandeur  could   not  be 

erased ;  [common  eyes. 

It  clothes  them  still,  though  veiled  from 

They  once  were  gods  and  heroes — and 

beheld  [scene ; 

As  the  blest  guardians  of  their  native 

And  hearts  of  warriors,  sages,  bards,  have 

swelled  [of  mien. 

With  awe  that  owned  their  sovereignty. 

—Ages  have  vanished  since  those  hearts 

were  cold,  [godlike  mould. 

And  still  those  shattered  forms  retain  their 


'Midst  their  bright  kindred,  from  thdr 

marble  throne         [storms  of  time ; 

They-  have  looked  down  on  thousand 

Surviving  power,  and  fame,  and  freedom 

flown,  [sublime  I 

They   still    remained,    still    tranquilly 

Till  mortal  hands  the  heavenly  conclave 

marred.  [are  forgot ; 

Th'  Olympian  groups  have  sunk,  and 


64 


MODERN  GREECE. 


Not  e'en  their  dust  could  weeping  Athens 

guard- 
But  these  were  destined  to  a  nobler  lot ! 
And  they  have  borne,  to  light  another 

land,  [riously  expand. 

The  quenchless  ray  that  soon  shall  glo- 

xcvm. 

Phidias  1  supreme  in  thought  1  what  hand 

but  thine,  [heaven, 

In  human  works  thus  blending  earth  and 
O'er  nature's  truth  hath  shed  that  grace 

divine,  [given  ? 

To   mortal    form    immortal    grandeur 
What  soul  but  thine,  infusing  all  its 

power,  [days, 

In  these  last  monuments  of  matchless 
Could,  from  their  ruins,  bid  young  Genius 

tower, 

And  Hope  aspire  to  more  exalted  praise  ? 
And  guide  deep  Thought  to  that  secluded 

height,  [light  ? 

Where  Excellence  is  throned,  in  purity  of 

XC1X. 

And  who  can  tell  how  pure,  how  bright 

a  flame,  [the  west  ? 

Caught  from  these  models,  may  illume 
What  British  Angelo  may  rise  to  fame, 
On  the  tree  isle  what  beams  of  art  may 

rest? 
Deem  not,  O  England  1  that  by  climes 

confined, 

Genius  and  taste  diffuse  a  partial  ray  ; 
Deem  not  th'  eternal  energies  of  mind 
Swayed  by  that  sun  whose  doom  is  but 

decay  I 


Shall  thought  be  fostered  but  by  skies 

.      serene  ?  [e'er  hath  been. 

No  1  thou  hast  power  to  be  what  Athens 


But  thine  are  treasures  on  unprized,  un- 
known, [mind, 
And  cold  neglect  hath  blighted  many  a 
O'er  whose  young,  ardours,  had  thy  smile 
but  shone,                           [behind  I 
Their  soaring  flight  had  left  a  world 
And  many  a  gifted  hand  that  might  have 

wrought 

ToGrecian  excellence  thebreathing  stone, 
Or  each  pure  grace  of  Raphael's  pencil 

caught, 

Leaving  no  record  of  its  power,  is  gone  ! 

While  thou  hast  fondlysought,  on  distant 

coast,  [and  thus  lost. 

G°ms  far  less  rich  than  those,  thus  precious, 

a. 

Yet  rise,  O  Land,  in  all  but  art  alone, 
Bid  the.  sole  wreath  that  is  not  thine  be 

won  I  [own ; 

Fame  dwells  around  thee — Genius  is  thine 
Call  his  rich  blooms  to  life — be  Thou 

their  Sun  ! 

So,  should  dark  ages  o'er  thy  glory  sweep, 
Should  thine  e'er  be  as  now  are  Grecian 

plains,  [blue  deep, 

Nations  unborn  shall  track  thine  own 
To  hail  thy  shore,  to  worship  thy  remains; 
Thy  mighty  monuments  with  reverence 

trace, 
And  cry.  "  This  ancient  soil  hath  nursed  a 

glorious  race  1 " 


TALES  AND  HISTORIC  SCENES, 

1819. 
THE  ABENCERRAGE. 

[Ths  events  with  which  the  following  tale  Is  Interwoven  are  related  in  the  Histotin  di  ku 
Guerras  Civiles  de  Granada,  They  occurred  in  the  reign  of  Abo  Abdeli,  or  Abdali,  the  Insl 
Moorish  king  of  that  city,  called  by  the  Spaniards  El  Rey  Chico.  The  conquest  of  Granada,  by 
Ferdinand  and  Isabella,  is  said  by  some  historians  to  have  been  greatly  facilitated  by  the  Abe;- 
cerrages,  whose  defection  was  the  result  of  the  repeated  injuries  thev  had  received  from  the  king, 
at  the  instigation  of  the  Zegris.  One  of  the  most  beautiful  hails  of  the  Alhambra  is  pointed  out  as 
the  scene  where  so  many  of  the  former  celebrated  tribe  were  massacred  ;  and  it  still  retains  their 
name,  being  called  the  Sala  de  los  Abencerrages."  Many  of  the  most  interesting  old  Spanish 
ballads  relate  to  the  events  of  this  chivalrous  and  romantic  period.] 


CANTO  FIRST. 

LONELY  and  still  are  now  thy  marble  halls, 
Thou  fair  Alhambra !  there  the  feast  is 

o'er ; 

And  with  the  murmur  of  thy  fountain-falls 
Ble'nd  the  wild  tones  of  minstrelsy  no 
more. 

Hushed  are  the  voices  that  in  years  gone  by 
Kave     mourned,     exulted,     menaced, 

through  thy  towers ; 
Within  thy  pillared  courts  the  grass  waves 

high, 

And   all   uncultured    bloom    thy   fairy 
bowers.    t 

Unheeded  there  the  flowering  myrtle  blows, 
Through  tall  arcades  unmarked  the  sun- 
beam smiles, 
And  many   a  tint  of  softened  brilliance 

throws 
O'er  fretted  walls  and  shining  peristyles. 

And  well  might  Fancy  deem  thy  fabrics 

lone, 

So  vast,  so  silent,  and  so  wildly  fair, 
Some  charmed    abode  of  beings  all  un- 
known, 
Powerful  and  viewless,  children  of  the  air. 

For  there  no  footstep  treads  tb'  enchanted 

ground,  [vades, 

There  not  a  sound  the  deep  repose  per- 

Save  winds  and  founts,  diffusing  freshness 

round 

Through  the  light  domes  and  graceful 
colonnades. 


Far  other  tones  have  swelled  those  courts 
along  [trace-- 

In days  romance  yet  fondly  loves  to 

The  clash  of  arms,  the  voice  of  choral  song, 
The  revels,  combats  of  a  vanished  race. 

And  yet  awhile,  at  Fancy's  potent  call, 
Shall  rise  that  race,  the  chivalrous,  tha 

bold; 

Peopling  once  more  each  fair  Ibrsaken  hall 
With  stately  forms,  the  knights  and  chiefs 
of  old. 

i. 

THE  sun  declines.  Upon  Nevada's  height 
There  dwells  a  mellow  flush  of  rosy  light ; 
Each  soaring  pinnacle  of  mountain  snow 
Smiles  in  the  richness  of  that  parting  glow  , 
And  Darro's  waves  reflect  each  passing  dye 
That  melts  and  mingles  in  th  empurpled 

sky. 
Fragrance,  exhaled  from  rose  and  citron 

bower, 

Blends  with  the  dewy  freshness  of  the  hour. 
Hushed  are  the  winds,  and  Nature  seems 

to  sleep 
In  light  and  stillness.    Wood,  and  tower, 

and  steep 

Are  dyed  with  tints  of  glory,  only  given 
To  the  rich  evening  of  a  southern  heaven- 
Tints  of  the  sun,  whose  bright  farewell  is 

fraught 
With  all  that  art  hath  dreamt,  but  never 

caught 

Yes  1  Nature  sleeps ;     jl  not  with  net  at 

rest 
The  fiery  passions  of  rhe  numaa  breast 


66 


THE  AEENCEERAGE. 


Hark !  from  the  Alhambra's  towers  what 
stormy  sound,  [around  ? 

Each    moment  deepening,    wildiy   swells 
Those  are  no  tumults  of  a  festal  throng, 
Not  the  light  zambra*  nor  the  choral  song  : 
The  combat  rages— 'tis  the'shoutxrf  war, 
'Tis  the  loud  clash  of  shield  and  scimitar. 
Within  the  Hall  of  Lions,  t  where  the  rays 
Of  eve  yet  lingering  on  the  fountain  blaze ; 
There,  girt  and  guarded  by  his  Zegri  bands, 
And  stem  in  wrath,  the  Moorish  monarch 
stands :  [him  wave, 

There  the  strife  centres — swords  around 
There  bleed  the  fallen,  there  contend  the 

brave  ; 

While  echoing  domes  return  the  battle-cry, 
"  Revenge  and  freedom  !  let  the  tyrant 

die  1" 

And  onward  rushing,  and  prevailing  still, 
Court,  hall,  and  tower  the  fierce  avengers 

fill. 

But  first  and  bravest  of  that  "gallant  train, 
Where  foes  are  mightiest  charging  ne'er  in 

vain ; 

In  his  red  hand  the  sabre  glancing  bright, 
His  dark  eye  flashing  with  a  fiercer  light, 
Ardent,  untired,  scarce  conscious  that  he 
bleeds,  [leads ; 

His  Aben-ZurrahsJ  there   young    Hamet 
While  swells  his  voice  that  wild  acclaim  on 
high,  [die !' 

' '  Revenge  and  freedom  I    let  the  tyrant 
Ves !  trace  the  footsteps  of  the  warrior's 

wrath, 

By  helm  and  corslet  shattered  in  his  path, 
And  by  the  thickest  harvest  of  the  slain, 
And  by  the  marble's  deepest  crimson  stain. 
Search  through  the  serried  fight,   where 

loudest  cries 

From  triumph,  anguish,  or  despair  arise ; 
And  brightest  where  the  shivering  falchions 
glare,  [there. 

And  where  the  ground  is  reddest — he  is 
Yes !  that  young  arm,  amidst  the  Zegn 

host, 
Hath  well  avenged  a  sire,  a  brother,  lost. 

They  perished — not  as  heroes  should  have 

died, 
On  the  red  field,  in  victory's  hour  of  pride 


*  Zambra,  a  Moprlih  dance. 

t  The  Hall  of  Lions,  the  principal  one  of  th< 
Alhambra,  was  so  called  from  twelve  sculpturec 
(iocs  which  supported  an  alabaster  basin  in  th< 
centre. 

t  The  name  is  thus  written  in  a  translation  o 
an  Arabic  MS. 


n  all  the  glow  and  sunshine  of  their  fame. 
And  proudly  smiling  as  the  death-pang 

came.  [tear 

I   had  they  thus  expired,   a  warrior's 
3ad  flowed,  almost  in  triumph,  o'er  their 

bier.  [those 

"or  thus  alone  the  brave  should  weep  for 
Who  brightly  pass  in  glory  to  repose. 
— Not  such  their  fate :   a  tyrant's   stern 

command 

Doomed  them  to  fall  by  some  ignoble  hand, 
As,  with  the  fiower  of  all  their  high-born 

race, 

Summoned  Abdallah's  royal  feast  to  grace, 
Fearless  in  heart,  no  dream  of  danger  nigh, 
They  sought  the  banquet's  gilded  hall — to 

die.  [tain's  wave 

Betrayed,  unarmed,  they  fell — the  foun- 
Flowed  crimson  with  the  life-blood  of  the 

brave : 

Till  far  the  fearful  tidings  of  their  fate 
Through  the  wide  city  rang  from  gate  to 

gate, 

And  of  that  lineage  each  surviving  son 
Rushed  to  the  scene  where  vengeance  might 

be  woo. 

For  this  young  Hamet  mingles  iu  the 

strife, 

Leader  of  battle,  prodigal  of  life, 
Urging  his  followers,  till  their  foes,  beset, 
Stand  faint  and  breathless,  but  undaunted 

yet. 

Brave  Aben-Zurrahs,  on  !  one  effort  more, 
Yours  is  the  triumph,  and  the  conflict  o'er. 
But  lo  !  descending  o'er  the  darkened  hall, 
The  twilight-shadows  fast  and  deeply  fall, 
Nor  yet  the  strife  hath  ceased — though 

scarce  they  know,  [from  the  foe  \ 

Through  that  thick  gloom,    the  brother 
Till  the  moon  rises  with  her  cloudless  ray, 
The  peaceful  moon,  and  gives  them  light 

to  slay.  [ing  train 

— Where  lurks  Abdallah  ?  'Midst  his  yield- 
They  seek  the  guilty  monarch,  but  in  vain. 
He  lies  not  numbered  with  the  valiant  dead, 
His  champions  round  him  have  not  vainly 

bled ;  [veil, 

But  when  the  twilight  spread  her  shadowy 
And  his  last  warriors  found  each  effort  fail, 
In  wild  despair  he  fled.  A  trusted  few, 
Kindred  in  crime,  are  still  in  danger  true  ; 
And  o'er  the  scene  of  many  a  martial  deed, 
The  Vega's*  green  expanse,  his  flying  foot 

steps  lead 


The  Vega,  .the  plain  surrounding  Granada* 


THE  ABENCERRAGB 


67 


He  passed  tb«  Alhantbra's  calm  and  lovely 

bowers, 
Where    slept    the    glistening  leaves  and 

folded  flowers  [cave, 

In  dew  and  starlight — there,  from  grot  and 
Gushed  in  wild  music  many  a  sparkling  wave ; 
There  on  each  breeze  the  breath  of  fragrance 

rose, 
And  all  was  freshness,  beauty,  and  repose. 

But  thou,  dark  monarch  1  in  thy  bosom 

reign  [agairl. 

Storms  that,  once  roused,  shall  never  sleep 
Oh  1  vainly  bright  is  Nature  in  the  course 
Of  him  who  flies  from  terror  or  remorse  I 
A  spell  is  round  him  which  obscures  her 

bloom,  [tomb : 

And  dims  her  skies  with  shadows  of  the 
There  smiles  no  Paradise  on  earth  so  fair 
But  guilt  will    raise  avenging  phantoms 

there.  [roves 

Abdallah  heeds  not,  though  the  light  gale 
Fraught  with  rich  odour,  stolen  from  orange- 
groves  ;  [that  rise, 
Hears  not  the  sounds  from  wood  and  brook 
Wild  notes  of  nature's  vesper-melodies  ; 
Marks  not  how  lovely,  on  the  mountain's 

head,  [spread ; 

Moonlight  and  snow  their  mingling  lustre 
But  urges  onward,  till  his  weary  band, 
Worn  with  their  toil,  a  moment's  pause 

demand. 

He  stops,  and  turning,  on  Granada's  fanes 
In  silence  gazing,  fixed  awhile  remains 
In  stem,  deep  silence.    O'er  his  feverish 

brow,  [blow, 

And  burning  cheek,  pure  breezes  freshly 
But  waft  in  fitful  murmurs,  from  afar, 
Sounds  indistinctly  fearful — as  of  war. 
What  meteor  bursts  with  sudden  blaze  on 

high, 

O'er  the  blue  clearness  of  the  starry  sky  ? 
Awful  it  rises,  like  some  Genie-form 
Seen  'midst  the  redness  of  the  Desert  storm, 
Magnificently  dread.    Above,  below, 
Spreads  the  wild  splendour  of  its  deepening 

glow.  [glare 

Lo  I  from  the  Alhambra's  towers  the  vivid 
Streams  through  the  still  transparence  of 

the  air  1 

Avenging  crowds  have  lit  the  mighty  pyre, 
Which  feeds  that  waving  pyramid  of  fire  ; 
And  dome  and  minaret,  river,  wood,  and 

height, 
From  dim  perspective  start  to  ruddy  light. 

Oh  Heaven  I  the  anguish  of  Abdallah's 

soul  I  [trol ! 

The  rage,  though  fruitless,  yet  bcvond  con- 


Yet  must  he  cease  to  gaze,  and  raving  fly 
For  life — such  life  as  makes  it  bliss  to  die  ! 
On  yon  green  height,  the  Mosque,  but  half 

revealed  [yield. 

Through  cypress-groves,  a  safe  retreat  may 
Thither  his  steps  are  bent — yet  oft  he  turns, 
Watching  that  fearful  beacon  as  it  burns. 
But  paler  grow  the  sinking  flames  at  last, 
Flickering  they  fade,  their  crimson  light  is 

past  ; 

And  spiry  vapours,  rising  o'er  the  scene, 
Mark  where  the  terrors  of  their  wrath  have 

been.  [pile, 

And  now  his  feet  have  reached  that  lonely 
Where  grief  and  terror  may  repose  awhile  • 
Embowered  it  stands  'midst  wood  and  clift 

on  high,  [nigh. 

Through  the  grey  rocks  a  torrent  sparkling 
He  hails  the  scene  where  every  care  should 

cease,  [peace. 

And  all — except  the  heart  he   brings — is 

There  is  deep  stillness  in  those  halls  of 

state 

Where  the  loud  cries  of  conflict  rang  so  late 
Stillness  like  that, when  fierce  the  Kamsin's 

blast 

Hath  o'er  the  dwellings  of  the  Desert  passed. 
Fearful  the  calm — nor  voice,  nor  step,  noi 

breath 

Disturbs  that  scene  of  beauty,  and  of  death  . 
Those  vaulted  roofs  re-echo  not  a  sound, 
Save  the  wild  gush  of  waters — murmuring 

round 

In  ceaseless  melodies  of  plaintive  tone, 
Through  chambers  peopled  by  the  dead 

alone. 

O'er  the  mosaic  floors,  with  carnage  red, 
Breastplate  and  shield  and  cloven  helm  are 

spread 

In  mingled  fragments — glittering  to  the  light 
Of  yon  still  moon,  whose  rays,  yet  softly 

bright, 

Their  streaming  lustre  tremulously  shed, 
And  smile  in  placid  beauty  o'er  the  dead  : 
O'er  features  where  the  fiery  spirit's  trace 
Even  death  itself  is  powerless  to  efface  ; 
O'er  those  who  flushed  with  ardent  youth 

awoke,  [broke, 

When  glowing  morn  in  bloom  and  radiance 
Nor  dreamt  how  near  the  dark  and  frozen 

sleep 
Which  hears  not  Gloty  call,  nor  Anguisb 

weep  ; 


*  The  Kamsin  is  the  burning  wind  of 
Tiesort. 


68 


TEE  ABENOERRAOE. 


In  the  low  silent  house,  the  narrow  spot, 
Home  of  forgetfulness — and  soon  forgot 

But  slowly  fade  the  stars — the  night  is 

o'er —  [more  ; 

Mom  beams  on  those  who  hail  her  light  no 
Slumberers  who  ne'er  shall  wake  on  earth 

again,  [vain. 

Mourners,  who  call  the  loved,  the  lost,  in 
Yet  smiles  the  day — pb  !  not  for  mortal  tear 
Doth  Nature  deviate  irom  her  calm  career : 
Nor  is  the  earth  less  laughing  or  less  fair, 
Though  breaking  hearts  her  gladness  may 

not  share. 

O'er  thecold  urn  the  beam  of  summer  glows, 
O'er  fields  of  blood  the  zephyr  freshly  blows ; 
Bright  shines  the  sun,  though  all  be  dark 

below, 

And  skies  arch  cloudless  o'er  a  world  of  woe; 
And  flowers  renewed  in  spring's  green 

pathway  bloom, 
Alike  to  grace  the  banquet  and  the  tomb. 

Within  Granada's  walls  the  funeral  rite 
Attends  that  day  of  loveliness  and  light ; 
And  many  a  chief,  with  dirges  and  with 

tears, 

Is  gathered  to  the  brave  of  other  years ; 
And  Hamet,  as  beneath  the  cypress  shade 
His  martyred  brother  and  his  sire  are  laid, 
Feels   every  deep    resolve    and    burning 

thought 
Of    ampler  vengeance    even    to    passion 

wrought. 

Yet  is  the  hour  afar — and  he  must  brood 
O'er  those  dark  dreams  awhile  in  solitude. 

Tumult  and  rage  are  hushed — another 

day 

In  still  solemnity  hath  passed  away, 
In  that  deep  slumber  of  exhausted  wrath. 
The  calm  that  follows  in  the  tempest's  path. 
— And  now  Abdallah  leaves  yon  peaceful 

fane, 

His  ravaged  city  traversing  again. 
No  sound  of  gladness  his  approach  precedes, 
No  splendid  pageant  the  procession  leads  ; 
Where'er  he  moves  the  silent  streets  along, 
Broods  a  stern  quiet  o'er  the  sullen  throng. 
No  voice  is  heard  ;  but  in  each  altered  eye, 
Once  brightly  beaming  when  his  steps  were 

nigh, 
And  in  each  look  of  those  whose  love  hath 

fled 

From  all  on  earth  to  slumber  with  the  dead, 
Those   by  his  guilt  made   desolate   and 

thrown 
OD  the  bleak  wilderness  of  life 


In    youth's    quick    glance  of   scarce-dJer 

sembled  rage, 

And  the  pale  mien  of  calmly-mournful  age, 
May  well  be  read  a  dark  and  fearful  tale 
Of  thought  that  ill  the  indignant  heart  can 

veil,  [power, 

And  passion,  like  the  hushed  volcano's 
That  waits  in  stillness  its  appointed  hour. 

n. 

No  more  the  clarion  from  Granada's  walls, 
Heard  o'er  the  Vega,  to  the  tourney  calls  ; 
No  more  her  graceful  daughters,  throned 

on  high, 

Bend  o'er  the  lists  the  darkly-radiant  eye : 
Silence  and  gloom  her  palaces  o'erspread, 
And  song  is  hushed,  and  pageantry  is  fled. 
— Weep,  fated  city  I  o'er  thy  heroes  weep- 
Low  in  the  dust  the  sons  of  glory  sleep  I 
Furled  are  their  banners  in  the  lonely  hall, 
Their  trophied  shields  hang  mouldering  on 
the  wall ;  [o'er, 

Wildly  their  chargers  range  the  pastures 
Their  voice  in  battle  shall  be  heard  no  more. 
And  they,  who  still  thy  tyrant's  wrath  sur- 
vive, [give, 
Whom  he  hath  wronged  too  deeply  to  for 
That  race  of  lineage  high,  of  worth  ap- 
proved, - 

The  chivalrous,  the  princely,  the  beloved- 
Thin  e  Aben-Zurrahs — they  no  more  shall 

wield 
In  thy  proud  cause  the  conquering  lance 

and  shield : 

Condemned  to  bid  the  cherished  scenes 
farewell  [dwell, 

Where  the  loved  ashes  of  their  fathers 
And  far  o'er  foreign  plains  as  exiles  roam, 
Their  land  the  desert,  and  the  grave  their 

home. 

Yet  there  is  one  shall  see  that  race  depart 
In  deep  though  silent  agony  of  heart  : 
One  whose  dark  fate  must  be  to  mourn 
alone,  [known ; 

Unseen  her  sorrows  and  their  cause  un- 
And  veil  her  heart,  and  teach  her  cheek  to 
wear  [share — 

fhat  smile  in  which  the  spirit  hath  no 
Lake  the  bright  beams  that  shed  their  fruit- 
less glow 
O  er  the  cold  solitudes  of  Alpine  snow. 

Soft,  fresh,  and  silent  is  the  midnight 

hour, 

And  the  young  Zegri  seeks  her  lonely  bower ; 
That  Zegri  maid,  within  whose  gentle  mind 
One  name  is  deeply,  secretly  enshrined. 


THE  ABENCERRAOR. 


69 


That  name  in  vain  stem  reason  would 

efface: 

Hamet !  'tis  thine,  thou  foe  to  all  her  race! 
And  yet  not  hers  in  bitterness  to  prove 
The  sleepless  pangs  of  unrequited  love — 
Pangs  which  the  rose  of  wasted  youth  con- 
"  sume,  [tomb ; 

And  make  the  heart  of  'all  delight  the 
Check  the  free  spirit  in  its  eagle  flight. 
And  the  spring-morn  of  early  genius  blight: 
Not  such  her  grief— though  now  she  wakes 
to  weep,  [of  sleep. 

While  tearless  eyes  enjoy  the  honey -dews 

A  step  treads  lightly  througii  the  citron- 
shade, 

Lightly ,  but  by  the  rustling  leaves  betrayed- 

Doth  her  young  hero  seek  that  well-known 
spot,  [got? 

Scene  of  past  hours  that  ne'er  may  be  for- 

'Tis  he — but  changed  that  eye,  whose 
glance  of  fire 

Could  like  a  sunbeam  hope  and  joy  inspire, 

As,  luminous  with  youth,  with  ardour 
fraught, 

It  spoke  of  glory  to  the  inmost  thought. 

Thence  the  bright  spirit's  eloquence  hath 
fled, 

And  in  its  wild  expression  may  be  read 

Stern  thoughts  and  fierce  resolves—now 
veiled  in  shade, 

And  now  in  characters  of  fire  portrayed. 

Changed  even  his  voice — as  thus  its  mourn- 
ful tone 

Wakes  in  her  heart  each  feeling  of  his  own. 

"  Zayda  1  my  doom  is  fixed — another  day 
And  the  wronged  exile  shall  be  far  away ; 
Far  from  the  scenes  where  still  his  heart 

must  be, 
His  home  of  youth,  and,  moie  than  all — 

from  thee. 
Oh  I  what  a  cloud  hath  gathered  o'er  my 

lot  [spot ! 

Since  last  we  met  on  this  fair  tranquil 
Lovely  as  then  the  soft  and  silent  hour, 
And  not  a  rose  hath  faded  from  thy  bower; 
But  I— my  hopes  the  tempest  hath  o'er- 

thrown, 

And  changed  my  heart  to  all  but  theealone. 
Farewell  high  thoughts  1  inspiring  hopes 

of  praise  I 

Heroic  visions  of  my  early  days  1 
In  me  the  glories  of  my  race  must  end — 
The  exile  hath  no  country  to  defend  I 
Even  in  life's  morn  my  dreams  of  pride  are 

o'er,  [more , 

Youth's  buoyant  spirit  wakes  for  me  no 


And  one  wild  feeling  in  my  altered  breasi 
Broods  darkly  o'er  the  ruins  of  the  rest. 
Yet  fear  not  thou — to  thee,  in  good  or  ill, 
The  heart,  so  sternly  tried,  is  faithful  still ! 
But  when  my  steps  are  distant,  and  my 

name 

Thou  hear'st  no  longer  in  the  song  of  fame; 
When  Time  steals  on,  >n  silence  to  efface 
Of  early  love  each  pure  and  sacred  trace, 
Cau  sing  our  sorrows  and  our  hopes  to  seem 
But  as  the  moonlight  pictures  of  a  dream, — 
Still  shall  thy  soul  be  with  me,  in  the  truth 
And  all  the  fervour  of  affection's  youth  ? 
If  such  thy  love,  one  beam  of  heaven  shall 

In  lonely  beauty  o'er  thy  wanderer's  way." 

"  Ask  not  it  such  my  love !    Oh !  trust 

the  mind 

To  grief  so  long,  so  silently  resigned  ! 
Let  the  light  spirit,  ne'er  by  sorrow  taught 
The  pure  and  lofty  constancy  of  thought, 
Its  fleeting  trials  eager  to  forget, 
Rise  with  elastic  power  o'er  each  regret  I 
Fostered  in  tears,  our  young  affections 

grew. 

And  I  have  learned  to  suffer  and  be  true. 
Deem  not  my  love  a  frail  ephemeral  flower, 
Nursed  by  soft  sunshine  and  the  balmy 

shower ; 

No  1  'tis  the  child  of  tempests,  and  defies, 
And  meets  unchanged,  the  anger  of  the 

skies! 

Too  well  I  feel,  with  griefs  prophetic  heart, 
That  ne'er  to  meet  in  happier  days  we  part. 
We  part  I  and  even  this  agonizing  hour, 
When  love  first  feels  his  own  o'erwhelming 

power, 

Shall  soon  to  memory's  fixed  and  tearful  eye 
Seem  almost  happiness — for  thou  wert 

nigh  I 

Yes  1  when  this  heart  in  solitude  shall  bleed, 
As  days  to  days  all  wearily  succeed, 
When  doomed  to  weep  hi  loneliness,  'twill 

be  f  thee  I 

Almost  like  rapture  to  have  wept  with 
— But  thou,  my  Hamet  1  thou  canst  yet 

bestow 

All  that  of  joy  my  blighted  lot  can  know. 
Oh  I  be  thou  still  the  high-souled  and  the 

brave, 

To  whom  my  first  and  fondest  vows  I  gave  I 
In  thy  proud  fame's  untarnished  beauty 

still 

The  lofty  visions  of  my  youth  fulfil. 
So  shall  it  soothe  me,  'midst  my  heart's  de- 
spair, [there ! " 
To  hold  undimmed  one  glorious  image 


70 


THE  A3BNOERRAGE. 


"Zayda.  my  best-beloved!    my  words 

too  well, 

Too  soon,  thy  bright  illusions  must  dispel ; 
Yet  must  my  soul  to  thee  unveiled  be 

shown,  [known. 

And  all  its  dreams  and  all  its  passions 
Thou  shall  not  be  deceived — for  pure  as 

heaven  [given. 

Is  thy  young  love,  in  faith  and  fervour 
I  said  my  heart  was  changed — and  would 

thy  thought 

Explore  the  ruin  by  thy  kindred  wrought, 
In  fancy  trace  the  land  whose  towers  and 

fanes, 
Crushed    by    the   earthquake,    strew    its 

ravaged  plains ; 
And  such  that  heart  where  desolation's 

hand  [grand ! 

Hath  blighted  all  that  once  was  fair  or 
But  Vengeance,  fixed  upon  her  burning 

throne, 

Sits  'midst  the  wreck  in  silence  and  alone  ; 
And  \,  in  stem  devotion  at  her  shrine, 
Each  softer  feeling,  but  my  love  resign. 
Yes  I  they  whose  spirits  all  my  thoughts 

control,  [soul ; 

Who  hold  dread  converse  with  my  thrilling 
They,  the  betrayed,  the  sacrificed,  the 

brave,  [grave, 

Who  fill  a  blood-stained    and    untimely 
Must  be  avenged  !  and  pity  and  remorse 
In  that  stern  cause  are  banished  from  my 

course. 
Zayda. !   thou  tremblest — and   thy  gentle 

breast  [rest ; 

Shrinks  from  the  passions  that  destroy  my 
Yet  shall  thy  form,  in  many  a  stormy  hour, 
Pass  brightly  o'er  my  soul  with  softening 

power 

And,  oft  recalleat*  thy  voice  beguile  my  lot, 
Like  some  sweet  lay,  once  heard,  and  ne'er 

forgot. 
— But    the    night   wanes — the    hours   too 

swiftly  fly, 

The  bitter  moment  of  farewell  draws  nigh  ; 
Yet,  loved  one  I  weep  not  thus — in  joy  or 

pain. 

Oh  !  trust  thy  Hamet,  we  shall  meet  again  ! 
Yes,  we  shall  meet  I  and  haply  smile  at 

last 

On  all  the  clouds  and  conflicts  of  the  past. 
On  that  fair  vision  teach  thy  thoughts  to 

dwell,  [farewell  1" 

Nor  deem  these  mingling  tears  our  last 

Is  the  voice  hushed,  whose  loved  expressive 

tone  [alone  1 

Thrilled  to  her  heart — and  dotb  she  weep 


Alone  she  weeps  ;  that  hour  of  parting  o'er, 
When  shall  the  pang  it  leaves  be  felt  no 

more  ?  [fair, 

The  gale  breathes  light,  and  fans  her  bosom 
Showering  the  dewy  rose-leaves  o'er  her 

hair; 

But  ne'er  for  her  shall  dwell  reviving  power 
In  balmy  dew,  soft  breeze,  or  fragrant 

flower,  [delight, 

To  wake  once  more  that  calm,  serene 
The  soul's  young  bloom,  which  passioned 

breath  could  blight — 
The  smiling  stillness  of  life's  morning  hour, 
Ere  yet  the  day-star  bums  in  all  his  power. 
Meanwhile,    through    groves    of    deep 

luxurious  shade, 

In  the  rich  foliage  of  the  South  arrayed, 
Hamet,  ere  dawns  the  earliest  blush  of  day, 
Bends  to  the  Vale  of  Tombs  his  pensive  way. 
Fair  is  that  scene  where  palm  and  cypress 

wave 

On  high  o'er  many  an  Aben-Zurrah's  grave. 
Lonely  and  fair,  its  fresh  and  glittering 

leaves  [weaves, 

With  the  young  myrtle  there  the  laurel 
To  canopy  the  dead  ;  nor  wanting  there 
Flowers  to  the  turf,  nor  fragrance  to  the  air. 
Nor  wood-bird's  note,  nor  fall  of  plaintive 

stream- 
Wild   music,   soothing   to   the   mourner's 

dream.  [o'er, 

There  sleep  the  chiefs  of  old — their  combats 
The  voice  of  glory  thrills  their  hearts  no 

more.  [blows ; 

Unheard  by  them  the  awakening  clarion 
The  sons  of  war  at  length  in  peace  repose. 
No  martial  note  is  in  the  gale  that  sighs 
Where   proud    their    trophied   sepulchres 

arise,  [brightest  bloom- 

Mid  founts,  and  shades,  and  flowers  ol 
As  in  his  native  vale  some  shepherd's  tomb. 
There,    where   the   trees  their    thickest 

foliage  spread 

Dark  o'er  that  silent  VaUey  of  the  Dead  ; 
Where  two  fair  pillars  rise,  embowered  and 

lone, 

Not  yet  with  ivy  clad,  with  moss  o'ergrown, 
Young  Hamet  kneels — while  thus  his  vows 

are  poured. 

The  fearful  vows  that  consecrate  his  sword  : 
—  "Spirit  of  him  who  first  within  my  mind 
Each  loftier  aim,  each  nobler  thought 

enshrined, 

And  taught  my  steps  the  line  of  life  to  trace 
Left  by  the  glorious  fathers  of  my  race, 
Hear  thou  my  voice  I — for  thine  is  with  &f 

still; 
In  every  dream  its  tones  my  bosom  thrill. 


THE  ABENCEREAOE 


71 


In  the  deep  calm  of  midnight  they  are  near, 
"Midst  busy  throngs  they  vibrate  on  my  ear, 
Still  murmuring  Vengeance  I  Nor  in  vain 

the  call: 

Few,  few  shall  triumph  in  a  hero's  fall  1 
Cold  as  thine  own  to  glory  and  to  fame, 
Within  my  heart  there  lives  one  only  aim  ; 
There,  till  the  oppressor  for  thy  fate  atone, 
Concentring  every  thought,  it  reigns  alone. 
I  will  not  weep — revenge,  not  grief  must  be, 
And  blood,  not  tears,  an  offering  meet  for 

thee ;  [come, 

But  the  dark  hour  of  stern  delight  will 
And  thou  shalt  triumph,  warrior  I  in  thy 

tomb.  away, 

1 '  Thou,  too,  my  brother  I  thou  art  passed 

Without  thy  fame,  in  life's  fair  dawning 

day.  [shine 

Son  of  the  brave  1  of  thee  no  trace  will 
In  the  proud  annals  of  thy  lofty  line ; 
Nor  shall  thy  deeds  be  deathless  in  the  lays 
That  hold  communion  with  the  after-days. 
Yet,   by  the  wreaths  thou  migbtst  have 

nobly  won,  [sun, — 

Hadst  thou  but  lived  till  rose  thy  noontide 
By  glory  lost,  I  swear  I  by  hope  betrayed, 
Thy  fate  shall  amply,  dearly  be  repaid  : 
War  with  thy  foes  I  deem  a  holy  strife, 
And  to  avenge  thy  death  devote  my  life. 
«— Hear  ye  my  vows,  O  spirits  of  the  slain ! 
Hear,  and  be  with  me  on  the  battle-plain  I 
A.t  noon,  at  midnight,  still  around  me  bide, 
Rise  on  my  dreams,  and  tell  me  how  ye 

died  I" 


CANTO  SECOND. 

"  Oh  !  ben  pro  wide  U  Cielo 
Ch'  Uom  per  delitti  mal  lieto  non  sia." 

ALFIBRI 
I. 

FAIR  land  1  of  chivalry  the  old  domain- 
Land  of  the  vine  and  olive,  lovely  Spain  I 
Though  not  for  thee  with  classic  shores  to 

vie  [eye ; 

In  charms  that  fix  the  enthusiast's  pensive 
Yet  hast  thou  scenes   of  beauty,  richly 

fraught 
With  all   that  wakes  the  glow  of  lofty 

thought ; 
Fountains,  and  vales,  and  rocks,  whose 

ancient  name  [fame, 

/ligh  deeds  have  raised  to  mingle  with  their 
Those  scenes  are  peaceful  now :  the  citron 

blows, 
Wild  spreads  the  myrtle,  where  the  brave 

repose. 


No  sound  of  battle  swells  on  Douro's  shore. 
And  banners  wave  on  Ebros  banks  no 

more.  .'  [tread 

But  who,  unmoved,  unawed,  shall  coldly 
Thy  fields  that  sepulchre  the  mighty  dead? 
Blest  be  that  soil  i  where  England  s  heroes 

share  [there ; 

The  grave  of  chiefs,  for  ages  slumbering 
Whose  names  are  glorious  in  romantic  lays>. 
The  wild  sweet  chronicles  of  elder  days — 
By  goatherd  lone  and  rude  serrano  sung, 
The  cypress   dells   and   vine-clad    rocks 

among.  [tale 

How  oft  those  rocks  have  echoed  to  the 
Of  knights  who  fell  in  Roncesvalles'  vale ; 
Of  him,  renowned  in  old  heroic  loie, 
First  of  the  brave,  the  gallant  Campeador  ; 
Of  those,  the  famed  in  song,  who  proudly 

died 

When  Rio  Verde  rolled  a  crimson  tide ,' 
Or  that  high  name,  by  Garcilaso's  might 
On  the  Green  Vega  won  in  single  fight  !• 

Round  fair  Granada,  deepening  from  afar, 
O'er  that  Green  Vega  rose  the  din  of  war. 
At  morn  or  eve  no  more  the  sunbeams  shone 
O'er  a  calm  scene,  in  pastoral  beauty  lone ; 
On  helm  and  corslet  tremulous  they  glanced, 
On  shield  and  spear  in  quivering  lustre 

danced. 

Far  as  the  sight  by  clear  Xenil  could  rove,- 
Tents  rose  around,  and  banners  glanced 

above ;  [bright 

And  steeds  in  gorgeous  trappings,  armour 
With  gold,  reflecting  every  tint  of  light, 
And  many  a  floating  plume  and  blazoned 

shield 

Diffused  romantic  splendour  o'er  the  field. 
There  swell  those  sounds  that  bid  the  life- 
blood  start  [heart : 
Swift  to  the  mantling  cheek  and  beating 
The  clang  of  echoing  steel,  the  charger's 

neigh, 
The  measured  tread    of  hosts    in  war's 

array ; 

And  oh  !  that  music,  whose  exulting  breath 
Speaks  but  of  glory  on  the  road  to  death 
In  whose  wild  voice  there  dwells  inspiring 

power 

To  wake  the  stormy  joy  of  danger's  hour  ; 
To  nerve  the  arm,  the  spirit  to  sustain, 
Rouse  from  despondence,  and  support  in 

pain  ; 


•  Garcllaso  de  la  Vega  derived  his  surcajM 
from  vanquishing  i  Moor  in  single  cuntba/  01 
the  Vtsra  of  Granada. 


THE  ABENOERRAGE. 


And,  'midst  the  deepening  tumults  of  the 

strife. 
Teach  every  pulse  to  thrill  with  more  than 

life.  [fold. 

—High  o'er  the  camp,  in  many  a  broidered 
Floats  to  the  wind  a  standard  rich  with 

gold  :  [appears 

There,  imaged  on  the  Cross,  His  form 
yho  drank  for  man  the  bitter  cup  of  tears — 
His  form,  whose  word  recalled  the  spirit 

fled.  [dead ! 

Now  borne  by  hosts  to  guide  them  o'er  the 
O'er  yon  fair  walls  to  plant  the  Cros?  on 

high,  [chivalry. 

Spain  hath  sent  forth  her  flower  of 
Fired  with  that  ardour  which  in  days  of  yore 
To  Syrian  plains  the  bold  Crusaders  bore — 
Elate  with  lofty  hope,  with  martial  zeal, 
They  come,  the  gallant  children  of  Castile  ; 
The  proud,  the  calmly  dignified :— and 

there 

Ebro's  dark  sons  with  haughty  mien  repair, 
And  those  who  guide  the  fiery  steed  of  war 
From  yon  rich  province  of  the  western 

star.* 

Butj  thou,  conspicuous  midst  the  glitter- 
ing scene,  [mien  ; 
Stern  grandeur  stamped  upon  thy  princely 
Known  by  Ihe  foreign  garb,  the  silvery 
vest,  [crest, 
The  snow-white  charger,  and  the  azure 
YoungA  ben-Zurrah !  'midst  that  host  of  foes. 
Why  shines  thy  helm,  thy  Moorish  lance  ? 

Disclose ! 
Why  rise  the  tents  where  dwell  thy  kindred 

train, 

O  son  of  Afric  !  'midst  the  sons  of  Spain  ? 
Hast  thou  with  these  thy  nation's  fall  con- 
spired, [fired  ? 
Apostate  chief  I    by  hope   of  vengeance 
How  art  thou  changed  1  still  first  in  every 

fight, 

Hamet  the  Moor  !  Castile's  devoted  knight  I 
There  dwells  a  fiery  lustre  in  thine  eye, 
But  not  the  light  that  shone  in  days  gone 

by; 

There  is  wild  ardour  in  thy  look  and  tone, 
But  not  the  soul's  expression  once  thine 
own,  [say 

Nor  aught  like  peace  within.  Yet  who  shall 
What  secret  thoughts  thine  inmost  heart 
may  sway?  [tained  breast, 

No  eye  but  Heaven's  may  pierce  that  cur- 
Whose   joys    and    griefs    alike   are    un- 
expressed. 

Thf  Arabic  signification  of  Andalusia 


There  hath  been  combat  on  the  tented 

plain  ; 

The  Vega's  turf  is  red  with  many  a  stain  ; 
And,  rent  and  trampled,  banner,  crest,  and 

shield 

Tell  of  a  fierce  and  well-contested  field. 
But  all  is  peaceful  now  :  the  west  is  bright 
With  the  rich  splendour  of  departing  light  ; 
Mulhacen's  peak,*  half  lost  amidst  the  sky, 
Glows  like  a  purple  evening  cloud  on  high, 
And  tints,  that  mock  the  pencil's  art,  o'er- 
spread  [head  ;t 

The  eternal  snow  that  crowns  Veleta's 
While  the  warm  sunset  o'er  the  landscape 

throws 

A  solemn  beauty  and  a  deep  repose. 
Closed  are  the  toils  and  tumults  of  the  day, 
And  Hamet  wanders  from  the  camp  away. 
In  silent  musings  rapt : — the  slaughtered 
brave  [wave. 

Lie  thickly  strewn  by  Darro's  rippling 
Soft  fall  the  dews — but  other  drops  have 
dyed  [side, 

The  scented  shrubs  that  fringe  the  river 
Beneath  whose  shade,  as  ebbing  life  retired, 
The  wounded  sought  a  shelter — and  ex- 
pired. 

Lonely,  and  lost  in  thoughts  of  other  days. 
By  the  bright  windings  of  the  stream  h« 
strays,  [scene, 

Till,  more  remote  from  battle's  ravaged 
All  is  repose  and  solitude  serene. 
There  'neath  an  olive's  ancient  shade  re- 
clined, [wind, 
Whose  rustling  foliage  waves  in  evening  s 
The  harassed  warrior,  yielding  to  the 
power,  [hour. 
The  mild  sweet  influence  of  the  tranquil 
Feels  by  degrees  a  long  forgotten  calm 
Shed  o'er  his  troubled  soul  unwonted  balm  ; 
His  wrongs,  his  woes,  his  dark  and  dubious 

lot, 

The  past,  the  future,  are  awhile  forgot ; 
And  Hope,  scarce  owned,  yet  stealing  o'tt 
his  breast,  [blest  ! 

Half  dares  to  whisper,  "Thou  shall  yet  be 

Such  his  vague  musings — but  a  plaintive 
sound  [round  ; 

Breaks  on  the  deep  and  solemn  stillness 
A  low,  half-stifled  moan,  that  seems  to  rise 
From  life  and  death's  contending  agonies, 
He  turns :  Who  shares  with  him  thai 

lonely  shade  t 
— A  youthful  warrior  on  his  deathbed  laid 


Highest  summit  of  the  Sierra 


THE  ABENUERRAGE. 


73 


AS  rent  and  stained  his  broidered  Moorish 

vest, 

The  corslet  shattered  on  his  bleeding  breast ; 
In  his  cold  hand  the  broken  falchion 

strained, 

With  lift's  last  force  convulsively  retained  ; 
His  plumage  soiled  with  dust,  with  crimson 

dyed, 

And  the  red  lance  in  fragments  by  bis  side  : 
He  lies  forsaken — pillowed  on  his  shield, 
His  helmet  raised,  his  lineaments  revealed. 
Pale  is  that  quivering  lip,  and  vanished  now 
The  light  once  throned  on  that  command- 
ing brow  ; 

And  o'er  that  fading  eye,  still  upward  cast, 
The  shax.es  of  death  are  gathering  dark 

and  fast. 

Yet,  as  yon  rising  moon  her  light  serene 
Sheds    the   pale    olive's   waving   boughs 

between,  [retrace, 

Too  well  can  Hamet's  conscious  heart 
Tnougb  changed  thus  fearfully,  that  pallid 

face, 

Whose  every  feature  to  his  soul  conveys 
Some  bitter  thought  of  long  departed  days. 
— "  Oh  I  is  it  thus,"  he  cries,  "  we  meet  at 

last? 

Friend  of  my  soul  in  years  for  ever  past  1 
Hath  fate  but  led  me  hither  to  behold 
The  last  dread  struggle,  ere  that  heart  is 

cold, — 

Receive  thy  latest  agonizing  breath, 
And  with   vain  pity  soothe  the  pangs  of 

death  1  [mains, 

Yet  let  me  bear  thee  hence — while  life  re- 
Even  though  thus  feebly  circling  through 

thy  veins,  [revive ; 

Some  healing  balm  thy  sense  may  still 
Hope  is  not  lost — and  Osmyn  yet  may  live ! 
And  blest  were  he  whose  timely  care  should 

save 
A  heart  so  noble,  even  from  glory's  grave  " 

Roused  by  those  accents,  from  his  lowly 

bed 

The  dying  warrior  faintly  lifts  his  head  ; 
O'er  Hainet's  mien,  with  vague  uncertain 

gaze,  .          [strays ; 

His    doubtful    glance    awhile   bewildered 
Till  by  degrees  a  smile  of  proud  disdain 
Lights  up  those  features  late  convulsed 

with  pain  , 

A  quivering  radiance  flashes  from  his  eye, 
That  seems  too  pure,  too  full  of  soul,  to  die  ; 
And  the  mind's  grandeur,  in  its  parting 

hour, 
Looks  from  that  brow  with    more   than 

wonted  power. 


— "  Awayl"  he  cries,  in  accents  of  com- 
mand, [hand. 
And  proudly  waves  his  cold  and  trembling 
' '  Apostate,  hence  1  my  soul  shall  soon  be 

free — 

Even  now  it  soars,  disdaining  aid  from  thee. 
'Tis  not  for  thee  to  close  the  fading  eyes 
Of  him  who  faithful  to  his  country  dies  ; 
Not  for  thy  hand  to  raise  the  drooping  head 
Of  him  who  sinks  to  rest  on  glory's  bed. 
Soon  shall  these  pangs  be  closed,  this  con- 
flict o'er,  [soar. 
And  worlds  be  mine  where  thou  canst  never 
Be  thine  existence  with  a  blighted  name, 
Mine   the   bright   death    which    seals   a 
warrior's  fame  1" 

The  glow  hath  vanished  from  his  cheek 

— kis  eye 

Hath  lost  that  beam  of  parting  energy  ; 
Frozen  and  fixed  it   seems — his  brow  is 

chill ;  [still. 

One  struggle  more — that  noble  heart  is 
Departed  warrior  !  were  thy  mortal  throes, 
Were  thy  last  pangs.ere  nature  found  repose, 
More  keen,  more  bitter,  than  the  envenomed 

dart 

Thy  dying  words  have  left  in  Hamet's  heart  ? 
Thy  pangs  were  transient ;  his  shall  sleep 

no  more, 

Till  life's  delirious  dream  itself  be  o'er  ; 
But  thou  shall  rest  in  glory,  and  thy  grave 
Be  the  pure  altar  of  the  patriot  brave. 
Oh,  what  a  change  that  little  hour  hath 

wrought 

In  the  high  spirit  and  unbending  thought ! 
Yet,  from  himself  each  keen  regret  to  hide, 
Still  Hamet  struggles  with  indignant  pride  ; 
While  his  soul  rises,  gathering  all  his  force, 
To  meet  the  fearful  conflict  with  Remorse. 
— To  thee,  at  length,  whose  artless  love 

hath  been 
His  own,   unchanged,   through    many   a 

stormy  scene— 

Zayda  !  to  thee  his  heart  for  refuge  P'*s  ; 
Thou  still  art  faithful  to  affection's  ties. 
Yes  1  let  the  world  upbraid,  let  foes  contemn, 
Thy  gentle  breast  the  tide  will  firmly  stem  ; 
And  soon  thy  smile  and  soft  consoling  voice 
Shall  bid  his  troubled  soul  again  rejoice. 

u. 

WITHIN  Granada's  walls  are  hearts  and 

hands 

Whose  aid  in  secret  Hamet  yet  commands  ; 
Nor  hard  the  task,  at  some  propitious  hour, 
Tp  win  his  silent  way  to  7.ayda's  bower. 


THE  ASENCEBBAOB. 


When  night  and  peace  are  brooding  o'er 

the  world,  [furled, 

When  mute  the  clarions,  and  the  banners 
That  hour  is  come — and,  o'er  the  arms  he 

bears,  [wears : 

A  wandering  Fakir's  garb  the  chieftain 
Disguise  that  ill  from|piercing  eye  could  hide 
The  lofty  port  and  glance  of  martial  pride  ; 
But  night  befriends.  Through  path  obscure 

he  passed, 

And  hailed  the  lone  and  lovely  scene  at  last ; 
Young  Zayda's  chosen  haunt,  the  fair 

alcove,  [grove : 

The  sparkling  fountain,  and  the  orange 
Calm  in  the  moonlight  smiles  the  still 

retreat, 

As  formed  alone  for  happy  hearts  to  meet. 
For  happy  hearts  ! — not  such  as  hers,  who 

there  [hair ; 

Bends  o'er  her  lute  with  dark  unbraided 
That  maid  of  Zegri  race,  whose  eyes,  whose 

mien,  [been. 

Tell  that  despair  her  bosom's  guest  hath 
So  lost  in  thought  she  seems,  the  warrior's 

feet 

Unheard  approach  her  solitary  seat, 
Till  his  known'accents  every  sense  restore — 
"  My  own  loved  Zayda  I  do  we  meet  once 

more?"  [prise, 

She  starts,  she  turns — the  lightning  of  sur- 
Of  sudden  rapture,  flashes  from  her  eyes ; 
But  that  is  fleeting — it  is  past — and  now 
Far  other  meaning  darkens  o'er  her  brow  : 
Changed  is  her  aspect,  and  her  tone  severe — 
' '  Hence  Aben-Zurrah  I    death  surrounds 

thee  here  1" 

"  Zayda  t  what  means  that  glance,  un- 
like thine  own  ! 

What  mean  those  words,    and    that   un- 
wonted tone  ? 
I  will  not  deem  thee  changed — but  in  thy 

face, 

It  is  not  joy,  it  is  hot  love,  I  trace  1 
It  was  not  thus  in  other  days  we  met : 
Hath  time,  hath  absence,  taught  thee  to 
forget?  [dispel: 

Oh  I  speak  once  more — these  rising  doubts 
One  smile  of  tenderness,  and  all  is  well  1" 

"  Not  thus  we  met  in  other  days  I — oh, 

no !  [foe. 

Thou  wert  not,  warrior  !  then  thy  country's 

Those  days  are  past — we  ne'er  shall  meet 

again  [then. 

With  hearts  all  warmth,  all  confidence,  as 

Put  thy  dark  soul  no  gentler  feelings  sway, 

Leader  of  hostile  bands  !  away,  away  1 


On  in  thy  path  of  triumph  and  of  power, 
Nor  pause  to  raise  from  earth  a  blighted 
flower." 

"  And  thou,  too,  changed  I  thine  earthly 

vow  forgot  I 

This,  this  alone,  was  wanting  to  my  lot  I 
Exiled  and  scorned,  of  every  tie  bereft, 
Thy  love,  the  desert's  lonely  fount,  was  left; 
And  thou,  my  soul's  last  hope,  its  lingering 

beam,  [dream, 

Thou  1  the  good  angel  of  each   brighter 
Wert  all  the  barrenness  of  life  possessed 
To  wake  one  soft  affection  in  my  breast  I 
That  vision  ended,   fate    bath  naught   in 

store 

Of  joy  or  sorrow  e'er  to  touch  me  more. 
Go,  Zegri  maid  !  to  scenes  of  sunshine  fly, 
From  the  stem  pupil  of  adversity  ! 
And  now  to  hope,  to  confidence  adieu  I 
If  thou  art  faithless,  who  shall  e'er  be  true?" 

"  Hamet !  oh,  wrong  me  not  I  I  too  could 
speak  [cheek, 

Of  sorrows.  Trace  them  on  my  faded 
In  the  sunk  eye,  and  in  the  wasted  form, 
That  tell  the  heart  hath  nursed  a  canker- 
worm  !  [there, 
But  words  were  idle — read  my  sufferings 
Where  grief  is  stamped  on  all  that  once 

was  fair. 
— Oh,  wert  thou  still  what  once  I  fondlj 

deemed, 
All  that  thy   mien   expressed,    thy  spirit 

^  seemed, 

My  love  had  been  devotion  1 — till  in  death 
Thy  name  had  trembled  on  my  latest  breath. 
But  not  the  chief  who  leads  a  lawless  band 
To  crush  the  altars  of  his  native  land  ; 
The  apostate  son  of  heroes,  whose  disgrace 
Hath  stained  the  trophies  of  a  glorious 
race ;  [name 

Not  him  I  loved — but  one  whose  youthful 
Was  pure  and  radiant  in  unsullied  fame. 
Hadst  thou  but  died,  ere  yet  dishonour's 
cloud  [shroud. 

O'er  that  young  name  had  gathered  as  a 
I  then  had  mourned  thee  proudly,  and  my 

grief 

In  its  own  loftiness  had  found  relief ; 
A  noble  sorrow,  cherished  to  the  last. 
When  every  meaner  woe  had  long  been 

past. 

Yes  1  let  affection  weep — no  common  tear 
She  sheds  when  bending  o'er  a  hero's  bier. 
Let  nature  mourn  the  dead — a  grief  like 
this,  [bliss  I" 

To  pangs  that  rend  my  bosom,  bad  beer 


THE  ABEKOERRAQE. 


75 


"High  minded  maid  I  the  time  admits 

not  now 

To  plead  my  cause,  to  vindicate  my  vow. 
That  vow,  too  dread,  too  solemn  to  recall, 
Hath  urged  me  onward,  haply  to  my  fall. 
Yet  this  believe — no  meaner  aim  inspires 
My  soul,  no  dream  of  power  ambition  fires. 
No  1  every  hope  of  power,  of  triumph,  fied, 
Behold  me  but  the  avenger  of  the  dead  ! 
One  whose  changed  heart  no  tie,  no  kindred 

knows, 

And  in  thy  love  alone  hath  sought  repose. 
Zayda  I  wilt  thou  his  stern  accuser  be  ? 
False  to  his  country,  he  is  true  to  thee  I 
Oh,  hear  me  yet ! — if  Harriet  e'er  was  dear, 
By  our  first  vows,  our  young  affection, 

hear  I 

Soon  must  this  fair  and  royal  city  fall, 
Soon  shall  the  Cross  be  planted  on  her  wall ; 
Then  who  can  tell  what  tides  of  blood  may 

flow, 

While  her  fanes  echo  to  the  shrieks  of  woe  ? 
Fly,  fly  with  me,  and  let  me  bear  thee  far 
From  horrors  thronging  in  the  path  of  war : 
Fly,  and  repose  in  safety — till  the  blast 
Hath   made  a  desert  in  its  course — and 

passed  I" 

"  Thou  that  wilt  triumph  when  the  hour 

is  come,  [doom, 

Hastened  by  thee  to  seal  thy  country's 
With  thee  from  scenes  of  death  shall  Zayda 

fiy  [die  I 

To  peace  and  safety  ? — Woman,  too,  can 
And  die  exulting,  though  unknown  to  fame, 
In  all  the  stainless  beauty  of  >ver  name  ! 
Be  mine,  unmurmuring,  undismayed,  to 

share 

The  fate  my  kindred  and  my  sire  must  bear. 
And  deem  thou  not  my  feeble  heart  shall 

fail,  [assail, 

When  the   clouds   gather  and   the  blasts 
Thou  hast  but  known  me  ere  the  trying  hour 
Called  into  life  my  spirit's  latent  power ; 
But  I  have  energies  that  idly  slept, 
While  withering  o'er  my  silent  woes  I  wept ; 
And  now,  when  hope  and  happiness  are 

fled, 

My  soul  is  firm — for  what  remains  to  dread  ? 
Who  shall  have  power  to  suffer  and  to  bear 
If  strength  and  courage  dwell  not  with 

Despair? 

[again. 

"  Hamet  I    farewell — retrace    thy    path 
To  join  thy  brethren  on  the  tented  plain. 
There  wave  and  wood  in  mingling  murmurs 

tell 
How,  in  far  other  cause  th?  father  fell  ' 


Yes !    on  that  soil  hath  Glory's  footstep 

been, 

Names  unforgotten  consecrate  the  scene  I 
Dwell  not  the  souls  of  heroes  round  thee 

there,  [^r 

Whose  voices  call  thee  in  the  whispering 
Unheard,  in  vain  they  call — their  fallen  son 
Hath  stained  the  name  those  mighty  spirits 

won, 

And  to  the  hatred  of  the  brave  and  free 
Bequeathed  his  own  through  ages  yet  to 

bei" 

Still  as  she  spoke,  the  enthusiast's  kind- 
ling eye 

Was  lighted  up  with  inborn  majesty, 
While  her  fair  form  and  youthful  features 

caught 

All  the  proud  grandeur  of  heroic  thought, 
Severely      beauteous.       Awe-struck    and 

amazed, 

In  silent  trance  awhile  the  warrior  gazed, 
As  on  some  lofty  vision — for  she  seemed 
One  all-inspired  —  each   look   with  glory 
beamed,  [cA  woes, 

While,  brightly  bursting  through  its  clouds 
Her  soul  at  once  in  all  its  light  arose. 
Oh  !  ne'er  had  Hamet  deemed  there  dwelt 

enshrined 

In  form  so  fragile  that  unconquered  mind  ; 
And  fixed,  as  by  some  high  enchantment, 

there 
He  stood — till  wonder  yielded  to  despair. 

"The  dream  is  vanished — daughter  of 

my  foes ! 

Reft  of  each  hope  the  lonely  wanderer  goes. 
Thy  wordc  have  pierced  his  soul ;  yet  deem 

thou  not 
Thou  couldsi  be   once  adored,  and  e'er 

forgot  I 

Oh,  formed  for  happier  love,  heroic  maid  I 
In  grief  sublime,  in  danger  undismayed. 
Farewell,   and  be  thou  blest  I — all  words 

were  vain  [again — 

From  him  who  ne'er  may  view  that  form 
Him,  whose  sole  thought  resembling  bliss, 

must  be  [thee  I" 

He  hath  been  loved,  once  fondly  loved  by 

And  is  the  warrior  gonei" — doth  Zayda 

hear 

His  parting  footstep,  and  without  a  tear  ? 
Thou  weep'st  not,  lofty,  maid  1 — yet  who 

can  tell  [dwell? 

What  secret  pangs  within  thy  heart  may 
They  feel  not  least,  the  firm,  the  high  in  soul 
Who  best  each  feeling's  agony  control. 


THE  ASENCEERAOE. 


Yes  !  we  may  judge  the  measure  of  the  grief 

'Which  finds  in  misery's  eloquence  relief ; 

But  who  shall  pierce  those  depths  of  silent 
woe 

Whence  breathes  no  language,  whence  no 
tears  may  flow. 

The  pangs  that  many  a  noble  breast  hath 
proved, 

Scorning  itself  that  thus  it  could  be  moved? 

He,  He  alone,  the  inmost  heart  who  knows, 

Views  all  its  weakness,  pities  all  its  throes  ; 

He  who  hath  mercy  when  mankind  con- 
temn, 

Beholding  anguish— all  unknown  to  them. 


FAIR  City !  thou  that  'midst  thy  stately  fanes 
And  gilded  minarets,  towering  o'er  the 

plains, 

In  Eastern  grandeur  proudly  dost  arise 
Beneath  thy  canopy  of  deep-blue  skies  ; 
While  streams  that  bear  thee  treasures  in 

their  wave,* 

The  citron-groves  and  myrtle-gardens  lave : 
Mourn,  for  thy  doom  is  fixed — the  days  of 

fear, 

Of  chains,  of  wrath,  of  bitterness  are  near  I 
Within,  around  thee,  are  the  trophied 

graves  [slaves. 

Of  kings  and  chiefs— their  children  shall  be 
Fair  are  thy  halls,  thy  domes  majestic  swell, 
But  there  a  race  that  reared  them  not  shall 

dwell : 

For  'midst  thy  councils  discord  still  presides, 
Degenerate  fear  thy  wavering  monarch 

guides — 

Last  of  a  line  whose  regal  spirit  .flown 
Hath  to  her  offspring  but  bequeathed  a 

throne,  [high, 

Without  one  generous  thought,  or  feeling 
To  teach  his  soul  how  kings  should  live 

and  die. 

A  voice  resounds  within  Granada's  wall, 
The  hearts  of  warriors  echo  to  its  call. 
Whose  are  those  tones,  with  power  electric 

fraught 

To  reach  the  source  of  pure  exalted  thought  ? 
— See,  on  a  fortress  tower,  with  beckoning 

hand, 
A  form,  majestic  as  a  prophet,  stand  t 


*  Granada  stands  upon  two  hills,  separated 
by  the  Darro.  The  Xenil  runs  under  the  walls. 
Tht  Darro  is  said  to  carry  with  Its  stri-uns  small 
uurtic!e5  of  gold,  and  the  Xcnil  of  •alvej 


His  mien  is  all  impassioned,  and  his  eye 
Filled  with  a  light  whose  fountain  is  on 

high; 

Wild  on  the  gale  his  silvery  tresses  flow, 
And  inspiration  beams  upon  his  brow; 
While,   thronging  round  him,  breathless 

thousands  gaze 
As  on  some  mighty  seer  of  elder  days. 

"Saw  ye  the  banners  of  Castile  dis- 
played, [rayed  ? 
The  helmets  glittering,  and   the  line  ar- 
Heard  ye  the  march  of  steel-clad  hosts  ?' 
he  cries ;  [arise  i 
"  Children  of  conquerors !  in  yourstrength 
O  high-bom  tribes  1    O  names  unstained 

by  fear  I 

Azarques,  Zegris,  Almoradis,*  hear  ! 
Be  every  feud  forgotten,  and  your  hands 
Dyed  with  no  blood  but  that  of  hostile 
bands.  [come, 

Wake,  princes  of  the  land  1  the  hour  is 
And  the  red  sabre  must  decide  your  doom. 
Where  is  that  spirit  which  prevailed  of  yore, 
When  Tank's  band  o'erspread  the  western 

shore  ? 

When  the  long  combat  raged  on  Xeres' 
plain,  [Spain  ? 

And  Afric's  tecbirf  swelled  through  yielding 
Is  the  lance  broken,  is  the  shield  decayed, 
The  warrior's  arm  unstrung,  his  heart  dis- 
mayed? 

Shall  no  high  spirit  of  ascendant  worth 
Arise  to  lead  the  sons  of  Islam  forth  ? 
To  guard  the  regions  where  our  fathers 
blood  [each  flood  ; 

Hath  bathed  each  plain,  and  mingled  with 
Where  long  their  dust  hath  blended  with 
the  soil  [toil  ? 

Won  by  their  swords,  made  fertile  by  their 
— O  ye  Sierras  of  eternal  snow  ! 
Ye  streams  that  by  the  tombs  of  heroes 
flow !  [their  might 

Woods,  fountains,  rocks  of  Spain  !  ye  saw 
In  many  a  fierce  and  unforgotten  fight — 
Shall  ye  behold  theif  lost  degenerate  race 
Dwell  midst  your  scenes  in  fetters  and  dis- 
grace, 

With  each  memorial  of  the  past  around, 
Each  mighty  monument  of  days  renowned  ? 
May  this  indignant  heart  ere  then  be  cold, 
This  frame  be  gathered   to  its    kindred 
mould. 


*  Tribes  of  the  Moors  of  Granada,  all  of 
high  distinction. 

T  The  shout  of  onset  used  by  the  Saracens  In 
battle. 


THE  ABENCERRAOB. 


n 


And  the  Last  life-drop  circling  through  my 

veins 

Have  tinged  a  soil  untainted  yet  by  chains  i 
—And  yet  one  struggle  ere  our  doom  is 

sealed, 

One  mighty  effort,  one  deciding  field  I 
If  vain  each  hope,  we  still  have  choice  to  be 
In  life  the  fettered,  or  in  death  the  free  I" 

Still  while  he  speaks  each  gallant  heart 

beats  high, 

And  ardour  flashes  from  each  kindling  eye ; 
Youth,  manhood,  age,  as  if  inspired,  have 

caught 

The  glow  of  lofty  hope  and  daring  thought ; 
And  all  is  hushed  around — as  every  sense 
Dwelt  on  the  tones  of  that  wild  eloquence. 
But  when  his  voice  had  ceased,  thf  im- 
petuous cry 

Of  eager  thousands  burst  at  once  on  high  ; 
Rampart,   and    rock,   and    fortress    ring 

around, 

And  fair  Alhambra's  inmost  halls  resound. 
' '  Lead  us,  O  chieftain !    lead  us  to  the 

strife— 

To  fame  in  death,  or  liberty  in  life  1" 
— O  zeal  of  noble  hearts  1  in  vain  displayed; 
O  chainless  valour  I  roused  too  late  to  aid  1 
Now,  while  the  burning  spirit  of  the  brave 
Is  roused  to  energies  that  yet  might  save — 
Even  now,  enthusiasts  i  while  ye  rush  to 

claim 

Your  glorious  trial  on  the  field  of  fame, 
Your  King  hath  yielded  I  Valour's  dream 

is  o'er  ; 
Power,  wealth,  and  freedom  are  your  own 

no  more ;  [mains 

And  for  your  children's  portion,  but  re- 
That  bitter  heritage — the  stranger's  chains. 


CANTO  THIRD. 
"  Permossi  ai  fin  il  cor  che  balzo  Unto." 

PlNDRMONTB. 
I. 

HEROES  of  elder  days  I  untaught  to  yield, 
Who  bled  for  Spain  on  many  an  ancient 

field; 

Ye  that  around  the  Oaken  Cross*  of  yore 
Stood  firm  and  fearless  on  Asturia's  shore, 
And  with  your  spirit,  ne'er  to  be  subdued, 
Hallowed  the  wild  Cantabrian  solitude  I 


•  The  oakeo  ernes,  carried  by  Pelogies  la 

.tad* 


Rejoice  ! — for  Spain,  arising  la  her  strength, 
Hath  burst  (he  remnant  of  their  yoke  at 

length ;  [drain, 

And  they,  in  turn,  (he  cup  of  woe  must 
And  bathe  their  fetters  with  their  tears  in 

vain. 

And  thou,  the  warrior  born  in  happy  hour,  * 
Valencia's  lord,  whose  name  alone  was 

power,  [by, 

Theme  of  a  thousand  songs  in  days  gone 
Conqueror  of  kings  1  exult,  O  Cid.on  high ; 
For  still  'twas  thine  to  guard  thy  country's 

weal, 

In  life,  in  death,  the  watcher  for  Castile  I 
Thou,   in  that    hour  when    Mauritania's 

bands  [ing  lands, 

Rushed  from  their  palmy  groves  and  burn- 
Even  in  the  realm  of  spirits  didst  retain 
A  patriot's  vigilance,  remembering  Spain  I 
Then  at  deep  midnight   rose  the  mighty 

sound, 

By  Leon  heard  in  shuddering  awe  profound, 
As  through  her  echoing  streets,  in  dread 

array,  fway — 

Beings  once  mortal  held  their  viewless 
Voices  from  worlds  we  know  not — and  the 

tread 

Of  marching  hosts,  the  armies  of  the  dead, 
Thou  and  thy  buried  chieftains.  From  the 

grave 

Then  did  thy  summons  rouse  a  king  to  save, 
And  join  thy  warriors  with  unearthly  might 
To  aid  the  rescue  in  Tolosa's  fight 

Those  d-xys  are  past— the  Crescent  on  thy 

shore, 

O  Realm  of  Evening  It  sets,  to  rise  no  more. 
What  banner  streams  afar  from  Vela's 

.tower  ? 

The  Cross,  bright  ensign  of  Iberia's  power! 
What  the  glad  shout  of  each  exulting  voice  ? 
"  Castile  and  Aragon  !  rejoice,  rejoice ! " 
Yielding  free  entrance  to  victorious  foes, 
The  Moorish  city  sees  her  gates  unclose, 
And    Spain's    proud  host,  with   pennon, 

shield,  and  lance,  ("advance. 

Through  her  long. streets  in  knightly  garb 
— Oh  1  ne'er  in  lofty  dreams  hath  fancy's  eye 
Dwelt  on  a  scene  of  statelier  pageantry, 
At  joust  or  tourney,  theme  of  poet's  lore, 
High  masque  or  solemn  festival  of  yore. 


•  In  the  "  Chronicles  of  the  Cid,"  Ruy  Dial 
b  frequently  so  styled. 

t  'Ihe  name  of  Andalusia,  the  Region  oj 
Evening,  or  of  the  Weft,  was  applied  by  the 
Arabs  to  the  whole  Peninsula,  as  well  as  to  thf 
Southern  Province 


78 


TEE  ABENCERRAGE. 


The  gilded  cupolas,  that  proudly  rise 
O'erarched  by  cloudless  and  cerulean  skies; 
Tall  minarets,  shining  mosques,  barbaric 

towers, 

Fountains  and  palaces,  and  cypress  bowers : 
And  they,  the  splendid  and  triumphant 

throng, 

With  helmets  glittering  as  they  move  along, 
With  broidered  scarf  and  gem-bestudded 
mail,  [gale ; 

And  graceful  plumage  streaming  on  the 
Shields  gold-embossed,  and  pennons  float- 
ing far, 

And  all  the  gorgeous  blazonry  of  war, 
All  brightened  by  the  rich  transparent  hues 
That  southern  suns  o'er  heaven  and  earth 

diffuse— 

Blend  in  one  scene  of  glory,  formed  to  throw 
O'er  memory's  page  a  never-fading  glow. 
And  there,  too,  foremost  midst  the  con- 
quering brave, 

Your  azure  plumes,  O  Aben-Zurrahs  I  wave. 
There  Hamet  moves  ;  the  chief  whose  lofty 
port  [court ; 

Seems  nor  reproach  to  shun,  nor  praise  to 
Calm,  stern,  collected — yet  within  his  breast 
Is  there  no  pang,  no  struggle,  unconfessed  ? 
If  such  there  be,  it  still  must  dwell  unseen, 
Nor  cloud  a  triumph  with  a  sufferer's  mien. 

•     Hear'st  thou  the   solemn  yet  exulting 

sound 

Of  the  deep  anthem  floating  far  around  ? 
The  choral  voices,  to  the  skies  that  raise 
The  full  majestic  harmony  of  praise  ? 
Lo  I   where,  surrounded  by  their  princely 

train,  [Spain, 

They  come,  the  sovereigns  of.  rejoicing 
Borne  on  their  trophied  car — lo  !  bursting 

thence 

A  blaze  of  chivalrous  magnificence  i 
Onward  their  slow  and  stately  course  they 

bend 
To  where  the  Alhambra's  ancient  towers 

ascend. 
Reared  and  adorned  by  Moorish  kings  of 

yore,  [more. 

Whose  lost  descendants  there  shall  dwell  no 
— They  reach  those  towers :  irregularly  vast, 
Arid  rude  they  seem,  in  mould  barbaric  cast. 
They  enter :  to  their  wondering  sight  is 

given 

A  Genii  palace— an  Arabian  heaven  ! 
A  scene  by  magic  raised,  so  strange,  so  fair, 
Its  forms  and  colour  seem  alike  of  air. 
Here,  by  sweet  orange-boughs  half  shaded 

o'er, 
The  deep  clear  bath  reveals  its  marble  floor, 


Its  margin   fringed   with  flowers,  whose 

glowing  hues 

The  calm  transparence  of  its  waves  suffuse. 
There  round    the  court,   where  Moorish 

arches  bend, 

Aerial  columns,  richly  decked,  ascend  ; 
Unlike  the  models  of  each  classic  race, 
Of  Doric  grandeur  or  Corinthian  grace, 
But  answering  well  each  vision  that  portrays 
Arabian  splendour  to  the  poet's  gaze. 
Wild,  wondrous,  brilliant,  all — a  mingling 

glow 

Of  rainbow-tints,  above,  around,- below  ; 
Bright  streaming  from  the  many  tinctured 

veins 

Of  precious  marble,  and  the  vivid  stains 
Of  rich  mosaics  o'er  the  light  arcade. 
In  gay  festoons  and  fairy  knots  displayed. 
On  through  the  enchanted  realm,  that  onl> 

seems  [dreams, 

Meet  for  the    radiant    creatures  of   our 
The  royal  conquerors  pass — while  still  theii 

sight  .  [delight 

On  some  new  wonder  dwells  with  fresh 
Here  the  eye  roves  through  slender  colon 

nades, 

O'er  bowery  terraces  and  myrtle  shades  ; 
Dark  olive-woods  beyond,  and  far  on  high 
The  vast  Sierra  mingling  with  the  sky. 
There,  scattering  far  around  their  diamond 

spray, 

Clear  streams  from  founts  of  alabaster  play, 
Through  pillared  halls,  where,  exquisitely 

wrought,  [fraught, 

Rich   arabesques,  with    glittering  foliage 
Surmount  each  fretted  arch,  and  lend  the 

scene 

A  wild,  romantic,  Oriental  mien  :     [of  old, 
While  many  a  verse,  from  Eastern  bards 
Borders  the  walls  in  characters  of  gold. 
Here  Moslem  luxury,  in  her  own  domain, 
Hath  held  for  ages  her  voluptuous  reign, 
'Midst  gorgeous  domes,  where  soon  shall 

silence  brood, 

And  all  be  lone — a  splendid  solitude. 
Now  wake  their  echoes  to  a  thousand  songs, 
From  mingling  voices  of  exulting  throngs  ; 
Tambour,  and  flute,  and  atabal*  are  there, 
And  joyous  clarions  pealing  on  the  air  ; 
While  every  hall  resounds,  ' '  Granada  won  I 
Granada  !  for  Castile  and  Aragon  1" 


Tis   night.    From  dome  and  tower.   In 

dazzling  maze, 
The  festal  lamps  innumerably  blaze  ; 


**  Atjbal,  a  k'.nd  of  Moorish  drum. 


THE  ABENCERRAGE. 


79 


Through  long  arcades  their  quivering  lustre 

gleams, 

From  every  lattice  tremulously  streams, 
'Midst  orange-gardens  plays  on  fount  and 

rill, 

And  gilds  the  waves  of  Darro  and  Xenil. 
Red  flame  the  torches  on  each  minaret's 

height, 

And  shines  each  street  an  avenue  of  light ; 
And  midnight  feasts  are  held  and  music's 

voice  [rejoice. 

Through  the  long  night  still  summons  to 
Yet  there,  while  all  would  seem  to  heedless 

eye 

One  blaze  of  pomp,  one  burst  of  revelry, 
Are   hearts  unsoothed  by  those  delusive 

hours,  [with  flowers ; 

Galled  by  the  chain,  though  decked  awhile 
Stem  passions  working  in  the  indignant 

breast,  [pressed, 

Deep  pangs   untold,  high  feelings  unex- 
Heroic  spirits,  unsubmitting  yet — 
Vengeance,  and  keen  remorse,  and  vain 

regret 

From  yon  proud    height,  whose  olive- 
shaded  brow 

Commands  the  wide  luxuriant  plains  below, 
Who  lingering  gazes  o'er  the  lovely  scene, 
Anguish  and  shame  contending  in  his  mien? 
He  who,  of  heroes  and  of  kings  the  son, 
Hath  lired  to  lose  whate'er  his  fathers  won  ; 
Whose  doubts  and  fears  his  people's  fate 

hath  sealed, 

Wavering  alike  in  council  and  in  field  ; 
Weak  timid  ruler  of  the  wise  and  brave, 
Still  a  fierce  tyrant  or  a  yielding  slave. 
Far  from  these  vine-clad  bills  and  azure 

skies, 

To  Afric's  wilds  the  royal  exile  flies  ; 
Yet  pauses  on  his  way  to  weep  in  vain 
O'er  all  he  never  must  behold  again. 
Fair  spreads  the  scene  around — for  him  too 

fair ; 

Eachglowingcharm  butdeepenshis  despair. 
The  Vega's  meads,   the   city's  glittering 

spires, 

The  old  majestic  palace  of  his  sires  ; 
The  gay  pavilions  and  retired  alcoves, 
Bosomed  in  citron  and  pomegranate  groves; 
Tower-crested  rocks,  and  streams  that  wind 

in  light, 

All  in  one  moment  bursting  on  his  sight, 
Speak  to  his  soul  of  glory's  vanished  years, 
And  wake  the  source  of  unavailing  tears. 
— Weep'st  thou,  AbdaUah  1  Thou  dost  well 

to  weep,  [keep  I 

0  feeble  heart  1  o'er  all  thou  couldst  not 


Well  do  a  woman's  tears  befit  the  eye 
Of  him  who  knew  not  as  a  man  to  die. 

The    gale    sighs    mournfully    through 

Zayda's  bower :  [flower. 

The  hand  is  gone  that  nursed  each  infant 
No  voice,  no  step,  is  in  her  father's  halls, 
Mute  are  the  echoes  of  their  marble  walls , 
No  stranger  enters  at  the  chieftain's  gate, 
But  all  is  hushed,  and  void,  and  desolate. 
There,  through  each  tower  and  solitary 

shade, 

In  vain  doth  Harriet  seek  the  Zegri  maid. 
Her  grove  is  silent,  her  pavilion  lone, 
Her  lute  forsaken,  and,  her  doom  unknown, 
And  through  the  scenes  she  loved,  unheeded 

flows  [repose. 

The  stream  whose  music  lulled  her  to 
— But  oh  I  to  him,  whose  self-accusing 

thought 

Whispers  'twas  he  that  desolation  wrought , 
He  who  his  country  and  his  faith  betrayed, 
And  lent  Castile  revengeful,  powerful  aid  ; 
A  voice  of  sorrow  swells  in  every  gale, 
Each  wave  low  rippling  tells  a  mournful 

tale; 

And  as  the  shrubs,  untended,  unconfined, 
In  wild  exuberance  rustle  to  the  wind, 
Each  leaf  hath  language  to  his  startled 

sense,  [her  hence  I" 

And  seems  to  murmur — "Thou  hast  driven 
And  well  he  feels  to  trace  her  flight  were 

vain —  [again  ? 

Where  hath  lost  love  been  once  recalled 
In  her  pure  breast,  so  long  by  anguish  torn, 
His  name  can  rouse  no  feeling  now — but 

scorn. 

O  bitter  hour  I  when  first  the' shuddering 

heart 

Wakes  to  behold  the  void  within — and  start 
To  feel  its  own  abandonment,  and  brood 
O'er  the  chill  bosom's  depths  of  solitude  ! 
The  stormy  passions  that  in  Hamet's  breast 
Have  swayed  so  long,  so  fiercely,  are  at  rest. 
The  avenger's  task  is  closed  : — he  finds  too 

late  [fate. 

It  hath  not  changed  his  feelings,  but  his 
His  was  a  lofty  spirit,  turned  aside 
From  its  bright  path  by  woes,  and  wrongs, 

and  pride, 

And  onward,  in  its  new  tumultuous  course 
Borne  with  too  rapid  and  Intense  a  force 
To  pause  one  moment  in  the  dread  career, 
And  ask  if  such  could  be  its  native  sphere. 
Now  are  those  days  of  wild  delirium  o'er, 
Their  fears  and  hopes  excite  bis  soul  BO 

more; 


80 


THE  ABENCERRAGE. 


The  feverish  energies  of  passion  close, 
And  his  heart  sinks  in  desolate  reporc, 
Turns  sickening  from  the  world,  yet  shrinks 

not  less 
From  its  own  deep  and  utter  loneliness. 

in. 

THERE  is  a  sound  of  voices  on  the  air, 
A  flash  of  armour  to  the  sunbeam's  glare, 
'Midst  the  wild  Alpuxarras.    There,   on 
high,  [the  sky, 

Where  mountain- snows  are  mingling  with 
A  few  brave  tribes,  with  spirits  yet  unbroke, 
Have  fled  indignant  from  the  Spaniard's 
yoke.  [alone, 

O  ye  dread  scenes  I  where  Nature  dwells 
Severely  glorious  on  her  craggy  throne ; 
Ye  citadels  of  rock  1  gigantic  forms, 
Veiled  by  the  mists  and  girdled  by  the 
storms  —  [caves ! 

Ravines,  and  glens,  and  deep  resounding 
That  hold  communion  with  the  torrent- 
waves  ;  [snows ! 
And   ye,    the  unstained  and  everlasting 
That  dwell  above  in  bright  and  still  repose  ; 
To  you,  in  every  clime,  in  every  age, 
Far  from  the  tyrant's  or  the  conqueror's 
rage,  [keep 
Hath  Freedom  led  her  sons— untired  to 
Her  fearless  vigils  on  the  barren  steep. 
She,  like  the  mountain-eagle,  still  delights 
To  gaze  exulting  fromunconquered  heights, 
And  build  her  eyrie  in  defiance  proud, 
To  dare  the  wind,  and  mingle  with  the 
cloud. 

Now  her  deep  voice,  the  soul's  awakener, 

swells,  [dells. 

WildrAlpuxarras !    through  your  inmost 
There,  the  dark  glens  and  lonely  rocks 

among, 

As  at  the  clarion's  call,  her  children  throng, 
She  with  enduring  strength  has  nerved  each 
frame,  [flame, 

And  made  each  heart,  the  temple  of  her 
Her  own  resisting  spirit,  which  shall  glow 
Unquenchably,  surviving  all  below. 
There  high-born  maids,  that  moved  upon 

the  earth 

More  like  bright  creatures  of  aerial  birth, 
Nurslings  of  palaces,  have  fled  to  share 
The  fate  of  brothers  and  of  sires  ;  to  bear, 
All  undismayed,  privation  and  distress, 
And  smile,  the  roses  of  the  wilderness : 
And  mothers  with  their  infants,  there  to 

dwell 
In  the  deep  forest  or  the  cavern  cell. 


And  rear  their  offspring  'midst  the  rocks 

to  be, 

If  now  no  more  the  mighty,  still  the  free. 
And  'midst  that  band  are  veterans,  o'er 

whose  bead 
Sorrows  and  years  their  mingled  snows 

have  shed. 

They  saw  thy  glory,  they  have  wept  thy  fall, 
O  royal  city  1  and  the  wreck  of  all 
They  loved   and   hallowed   most: — doth 

aught  remain 

For  these  to  prove  of  happiness  or  pain  ? 
Life's  cup  is  drained — earth  fades  before 

their  eye ; 

Their  task  is  closing — they  have  but  to  die. 
Ask  ye  why  fled  they  hither? — that  their 

doom 

Might  be,  to  sink  unfettered  to  the  tomb. 
And  youth,  in  all  its  pride  of  strength,  is 

there, 

And  buoyancy  of  spirit,  formed  to  dare 
And  suffer  all  things— fallen  on  evil  days, 
Yet  darting  o'er  the  world  an  ardent  gaze, 
As  on  the  arena  where  its  powers  may  find 
Full  scope  to  strive  for  glory  with  mankind. 
Such  are  the  tenants  of  the  mountain-hold, 
The  high  in  heart,  unconquered,  uncon- 
trolled ; 
By  day,   the  huntsmen  of  the  wild— by 

night, 
Unwearied  guardians  of  the  watch-fire's 

light,  [caught 

They  from  their  bleak  majestic  home  have 
A  sterner  tone  of  unsubmitting  thought, 
While  all  around  them  bids  the  soul  arist 
To  blend  with  Nature's  dread  sublimities. 

But  these  are  lofty  dreams,  and  must 

not  be 

Where  tyranny  is  near.  The  bended  knee, 
The  eye  whose  glance  no  inborn  grandeur 

fires, 

And  the  tamed  heart,  are  tributes  she  re- 
quires ; 

Nor  must  the  dwellers  of  the  rock  look  down 
On  regal  conquerors  and  defy  their  frown. 
What  warrior-band  is  toiling  to  explore 
The  mountain-pass,  with  pine-wood  sha 

dowed  o'er, 
Startling  with  martial  sounds  each  rude 

recess, 

Where  the  deep  echo  slept  in  loneliness  ? 
These  are  the  sons  of  Spain  1— Your  foes 

are  near, 

O  exiles  of  the  wild  Sierra  I  hear  1 
Hear  I  wake  1  arise  !  and  from  your  inmost 

caves 
Pour  like  the  torrent  in  its  might  of  waves  I 


THE  ABENCHREAGE. 


Who  leads  the  invaders  on  ?  His  features 

bear 

The  deep-worn  traces  of  a  calm  despair ; 
Yet  his  dark  brow  is  haughty,  and  his  eye 
Speaks  of  a  soul  that  asks  not  sympathy. 
'Tis  he!  'tis  he  again  I  the  apostate  chief ; 
He  comes  in  all  the  sternness  of  his  grief. 
He  comes,  but  changed  in  heart,  no  more 

to  wield 

Falchions  for  proud  Castile  in  battle-field  : 
Against  his  country's  children  though  he 

leads          , 

Castilian  bands  again  to  hostile  deeds, 
His  hope  is  but  from  ceaseless  pangs  to  fly, 
To  rush  upon  the  Moslem  spears,  and  die. 
So  shall  remorse  and  love  the  heart  release, 
Which  dares  not  dream  of  joy,  but  sighs  for 

peace. 
—The  mountain-echoes   are  awake  I     A 

sound 
Of  strife   is   ringing   through  the  rocks 

around — 

Within  the  steep  defile  that  winds  between 
Cliffs  piled  on  cliffs,  a  dark  terrific  scene, 
Where  Moorish  exile  and  Castilian  knight 
Are  wildly  mingling  in  the  serried  fight. 
Red  flows  the  foaming  streamlet  of  the 

glen, 
»Vhose  bright    transparence    ne'er  was 

stained  till  then  ; 
While  swell  the  war-note  and  the  clash  of 

spears 

To  the  bleak  dwellings  of  the  mountaineers, 
Where  thy  sad  daughters,  lost  Granada  1 

wait 

In  dread  suspense  the  tidings  of  their  fate. 
But  he — whose  spirit,  panting  for  its  rest, 
Would  fain  each  sword  concentrate  in  his 

breast — 

Who,  where  a  spear  is  pointed,  or  a  lance 
Aimed  at  another's  breast,  would  still  ad- 
vance—  [by, 
Jourts  death  in  vain  ;  each  weapon  glances 
As  if  for  him  'twere  bliss  too  great  to  die. 
Yes,  Aben-Zurrah  !  there  are  deeper  woes 
Reserved  for  thee  ere  nature's  last  repose ; 
Thou  know'st  not  yet  what  vengeance  fate 

can  wreak, 

Nor  all  the  heart  can  suffer  ere  it  break. 
Doubtful  and  long)  the  strife,  and  bravely 

fell 

The  sons  of  battle  in  that  narrow  dell ; 
Youth  in  its  light  of  beauty  there  hath 

passed, 

And  age,  the  weary,  found  repose  at  last ; 
Till,  few  and  faint,  the  Moslem  tribes  recoil, 
Borne  down  bv  numbers  and  o'erpowered 

by  toil, 


Dispersed,  disheartened,  through  the  pass 

they  fly, 
Pierce  the  deep  wood,  or  mount  the  cliff  on 

high; 
While  Hamet's  band  in  wonder  gaze,  nor 

dare  [despair. 

Track  o'er  their  dizzy  path  the  footsteps  of 

Yet  he,  to  whom  each  danger  hath  be- 
come 

A  dark  delight,  and  every  wild  a  home, 
Still  urges  onward— undismayed  to  tread 
Where  life's  fond  lovers  would  recoil  with 

dread. 

But  fear  is  for  the  happy.  They  may  shrink 
From  the  steep  precipice  or  torrent's 

brink —  [doom 

They  to  whom  earth  is  paradise :  their 
Lends  no  stern  courage  to  approach  the 

tomb. 
Not  such  his  lot,  who.  schooled  by  fate 

severe. 
Were  but  too  blest  if  aught  remained  to 

fear. 
Up  the  rude  crags,  whose  giant  masses 

throw 

Eternal  shadows  o'er  the  glen  below  ; 
And  by  the  fall,  whose  many- tinctured  spray 
Half  in  a  mist  of  radiance  veils  its  way. 
He  holds  his  venturous  track  :—  supported 

now 

By  some  o'erhanging  pine  or  ilex  bough  , 
Now  by  some  jutting  stone,  that  seems  to 

dwell 

Half  in  mid-air,  as  balanced  by  a  spell. 
Now  hath  his  footstep  gained  the  summit  s 

bead, 

A  level  span,  with  emerald  verdure  spread, 
A  fairy  circle.  There  the  heath-flowers  rise, 
And  the  rock-rose  unnoticed  blooms  and 

dies :  [tide 

And  brightly  plays  the  stream,  ere  yet  its 
In  foam  and  thunder  cleave  the  mountain- 
side. 

But  all  is  wild  beyond — and  Hamet's  eye 
Roves  o'er  a  world  of  rude  sublimity. 
That  dell  beneath,  where  even  at  noon  ol 

day 
Earth's  chartered   guest,    the   sunbeam, 

scarce  can  stray ; 

Around,  untrodden  woods  ;  and  far  above. 
Where  mortal  footstep  ne'er  may  hope  to 

rove, 

Bare  granite  cliffs,  whose  fixed  inherent  dyes 
Rival  the  tints  that  float  o'er  summer  skies  ; 
And  the  pure  glittering  snow-realm,  yet 

more  high, 
That  seems  a  part  of  heaven's  eternity. 


82 


THE  ABENCERRAGE. 


There  is  no  track  of  man  where  Haraet 

stands, 

[  athless  the  scene  as  Lybia's  desert  sands ; 
Yet  on  the  calm  still  air  a  sound  is  heard 
Of  distant  voices,  and  the  gathering-word 
Of  Islam's  tribes,  now  faint  and  fainter 

grown, 

Now  but  the  lingering  echo  of  a  tone. 
That  sound,  whose  cadence  dies  upon  his 

ear, 

He  follows,  reckless  if  his  bands  are  near. 
On  by  the  rushing  stream  his  way  he  bends, 
And  through  the  mountain's  forest-zone 

ascends ; 

Piercing  the  still  and  solitary  shades 
Of  ancient  pine  and  dark  luxuriant  glades, 
Eternal  twilight's    reign.      Those    ma<^s 

past,  [last, 

The  glowing  sunbeams  meet  his  eyes  at 
And  the  lone  wanderer  now  hath  reached 

the  source 
Whence  the  wave  gushes,  foaming  on  its 

course. 

But  there  he  pauses — for  the  lonely  scene 
Towers  in  such  dread  magnificence  of  mien, 
And,  mingled  oft  with  some  wild  eagle's 

cry, 

From  rock-built  eyrie  rushing  to  the  sky, 
So  deep  the  solemn  and  majestic  sound 
Of  forests,  and  of  waters  murmuring 

round—  [gets 

That,  rapt  in  wondering  awe,  his  heart  for- 
Its  fleeting  struggles  and  its  vain  regrets. 
— What  earthly  feelings  unabashed    can 

dwell  [swell 

rn  Nature's  mighty  presence  ? — 'midst  the 
Of  everlasting  hills,  the -roar  of  floods, 
And  frown  of  rocks,  and  pomp  of  waving 

woods  ?  [press, 

These  their  own  grandeur  on  the  soul  im- 
And  bid  each  passion  feel  its  nothingness. 

'Midst  the  vast  marble  cliffs,  a  lofty  cave 
Rears  its  broad  arch  beside  the  rushing 

wave ; 

Shadowed  by  giant  oaks,  and  rude  and  lone, 
It  seems  the  temple  of  some  power  un- 
known, 

Where  earthly  being  may  not  dare  intrude 
To  pierce  the  secrets  of  the  solitude. 
Yet  thence  at  intervals  a  voice  of  w'ail 
Is  rising,  wild  and  solemn,  on  the  gale. 
Did  thy  heart  thrill,  O  Hametl    at  tt" 

tone? 

Came  it  not  o'er  thee  as  a 'spirit's  moan — 
As  some  loved  sound  that  long  from  earth 

hath  fled, 
The  unfo/fjotten  zcceEtt  of  the  dead  ? 


Even  thus  it  rose — and  springing  from  his 

trance 

His  eager  footsteps  to  the  sound  advance. 
He  mounts  the  cliffs,  he  gains  the  cavern 

floor ;  [o'er : 

Its  dark  green  moss  with  blood  is  sprinkled 
He  rushes  on — and  lo  1  where  Zayda  rends 
Her  locks,  as  o'er  her  slaughtered  sire  she 

bends, 

Lost  in  despair.    Yet,  as  a  step  draws  nigh, 
Disturbing  sorrow's  lonely  sanctity, 
She  lifts  her  head,  and,   all-subdued  by 

grief,  [chief ; 

Views  with  a  wild  sad  smile-  the  once-loved 
While  rove  her  thoughts  uncguscious  of  the 

past, 
And  every  woe  forgetting— but  the  last 

"Com'st  thou  to  weep  with  me? — for  1 

am  left 

Alone  on  earth,  of  every  tie  bereft. 
Low  lies  the  warrior  on  his  blood-stained 
bier ;  [hear. 

His  child  may  call,  but  he  no  more  shall 
He  sleeps — but  never  shall  those  eyes  un- 
close :  [pose ; 
'Twas  not  my  voice  that  lulled  him  to  re- 
Nor  can  it  break  his  slumbers.     Dost  thou 
mourn  ?  [torn  ? 
And  is  thy  heart,  like  mine,  with  anguish 
Weep,  and  my  soul  a  joy  in  grief  shall 
know,                                        [flow !" 
That  o'er  his  grave  my  tears  with  Hamet's 

But  scarce  her  voice  had  breathed  that 

well-known  name 

When,  swiftly  rushing  o'er  her  spirit,  came 
Each  dark  remembrance — by  affliction's 

power 

Awhile  effaced  in  that  o'erwhelming  hour, 
To  wake  with  tenfold  strength.  Twas 

then  her  eye 

Resumed  its  light,  her  mien  its  majesty, 
And  o'er  her  wasted  cheek  a  burning  glow 
Spreads,  while  her  lips'  indignant  accents 

flow. 

"Away  I  I  dream  I    Oh,  how  hath  sor- 
row's might 
Bowed  down  my  soul,  and  quenched  its 

native  light — 

That  I  should  thus  forget !  and  bid  thy  tear 
With  mine  be  mingled  o'er  a  father's  bier ! 
Did  he  not  perish,  haply  by  thy  hand, 
In  the  last  combat  with  thy  ruthless  band  ? 
The  morn  beheld  that  conflict  of  despair : — 
Twas  then  he  fell— he  fell  I- -and  thou 
wert  there  ' 


THE  ABENCERRAGB. 


Thou  I    who  thy  country's  children  hast 

pursued  [rude. 

To  their  last  refuge  'midst  these  mountains 

Was  it  for  this  I  loved  thee  ?  Thou  hast 

taught 

My  soul  all  grief,  all  bitterness  of  thought  1 

Twill  soon  be  past.     I  bow  to  Heaven's 

decree,  [thee." 

Which  bade  each  pang  be  ministered  by 

"  I  had  not  deemed  that  aught  remained 

below 

For  me  to  prove  of  yet  untasted  woe  ; 
But  thus  to  meet  thee,  Zayda  !  can  impart 
One  more,  one  keener  agony  of  heart. 
Oh,  hear  me  yet  t — I  would  have  died  to 

save 

My  foe,  but  still  thy  father,  from  the  grave  ; 
But  in  the  fierce  confusion  of  the  strife, 
In  my  own  stem  despair  and  scorn  of  life, 
Borne  wildly  on,  I  saw  not,  knew  not  aught, 
Save  that  to  perish  there  in  vain  I  sought. 
—And  let  me  share  thy  sorrows  1  Hadst 

thou  known 

All  I  have  felt  in  silence  and  alone, 
Even  thou  mightst  then  relent,  and  deem, 

at  last, 

A  grief  like  mine  might  expiate  all  the  past. 
But  oh  I  for  thee,  the  loved  and  precious 

flower, 

So  fondly  reared  in  luxury's  guarded  bower, 
From  every  danger,  every  storm  secured, 
How  hast  thou  suffered  !  what  hast  thou 

endured  ! 

Daughter  of  palaces  !  and  can  it  be 
That  this  bleak  desert  is  a  home  for  thee  I 
These    rocks    thy   dwelling ;    thou    who 

shouldst  have  known 

Of  life  the  sunbeam  and  the  smile  alone  I , 
Oh,  yet  forgive  ! — be  all  my  guilt  forgot, 
Nor  bid  me  leave  thee  to  so  rude  a  loll" 

"That  lot  is  fixed— 'twere  fruitless  to 

repine  . 

Still  must  a  gulf  divide  my  fate  from  thine, 
t  may  forgive  ;  but  not  at  will  the  heart 
Can  bid  its  dark  remembrances  depart. 
No,    Hamet  1  no ! — too  deeply  are  these 

traced ; 
Yet  the  hour  comes  when    all    shall  be 

effaced  I 
Not  long  on  earth,  not  long,  shall  Zayda 

keep 

Her  lonely  vigils  o'er  the  grave  to  weep. 
Even  now,  prophetic  of  my  early  doom, 
Speaks  to  my  soul  a  presage  of  the  tomb  I 
And  ne'er  in  vain  did  hopeless  mourner  feel 
That  dtep  foreboding  o'er  the  bosom  steal 


Soon  shall  I  slumber  calmly  by  the  side 
Of  him  for  whom  I  lived,  and  would  nave 

died :  [orphan  lot. 

Till  then,  one   thought  shall  soothe  m> 
In  pain  and  peril — I  forsook  him  not. 
— And  now,  farewell  1  Behold  the  summei 

day 

Is  passing  like  the  dreams  of  life  away. 
Soon  will  the  tribe  of  him  who  sleeps  draw 

nigh, 

With  the  last  rites  his  bier  to  sanctify. 
Oh,  yet  in  time,   away ! — 'twere  not  my 

prayer  [spare ! 

Could  move  their  hearts  a  foe  like  thee  to 
This  hour  they  come — and  dost  thou  scorn 

to  fly  ? 
Save  me  that  one  last  pang  to  see  thee  die  !" 

Even  while  she  speaks  is  heard  then 

echoing  tread ; 

Onward  they  move,  the  kindred  of  the  dead. 
They  reach  the  cave — they  enter :  slow  their 

pace,  [er's  face. 

And  calm  deep  sadness  marks  each  mourn- 
And  all  is  hushed,  till  he  who  seems  to  wait 
In  silent  stern  devotedness  his  fate, 
Hath  met  their  glance — then  grief  to  fury 

turns ;  [burns, 

Each  mien  is  changed,  each  eye  indignant 
And  voices  rise,  and  swords  have  left  their 

sheath ;  [death  I 

Blood  must  atone  for  blood,  and  death  for 
They  close  around  him  :  lofty  still  his  mien, 
His  cheek  unaltered,  and  his  brow  serene. 
Unheard,  or  heard  in  vain,  is  Zayda's  cry ; 
Fruitless  her  prayer,  unmarked  her  agony. 
But  as  his  foremost  foes  their  weapons 

bend 

Against  the  life  he  seeks  not  to  defend, 
Wildly  she  darts  between — each  feeling 

past,  [last. 

Save  strong  affection,   which  prevails  at 
Oh,  not  in  vain  its  dan ng  I — for  the  blow 
Aimed  at  his  heart  hath  bade  her  life-blood 

flow  ; 

And  she  hath  sunk  a  martyr  on  the  breast 
Where  in  that  hour  her  head  may  calmly 

rest— 

For  he  is  saved  I  Behold  the  Zegri  band, 
Pale  with  dismay  and  grief,  around  her 

stand  : 

While,   every  thought  of  hate  and   ven- 
geance o'er, 
They  weep  for  her  who  soon  shall  weep  no 

more. 

She,  she  alone  is  calm : — a  fading  smile, 
Like  sunset,,  passes  o'er   her  cheek    the 

while, 


TEE  ABENCERRAGE. 


And  in  her  eye,  ere  yet  it  closes,  dwell 
Those  last  faint  rays,  the  parting  soul's 

farewell.  [proved 

— "  Now  is  the  conflict  past ;  and  I  have 
How  well,   how  deeply  thou    hast   been 

beloved !  [hide 

Yes !   in  an  hour  like  this  'twere  vain  to 
The  heart  so  long  and  so  severely  tried  : 
Still  to  thy  name  that  heart  hath  fondly 

thrilled, 

But  sterner  duties  called — and  were  fulfilled. 
And  I  am  blest !  to  every  holier  tie 
My  life  was  faithful, — and  for  thee  I  die  ! 
Nor  shall  the  love  so  purified  be  vain  ; 
Severed  on  earth,  we  yet  shall  meet  again. 
Farewell !  —  And   ye,    at    Zayda's  dying 

prayer,  [spare ! 

Spare  him,  my  kindred  tribe  !  forgive  and 
Oh  !  be  his  guilt  forgotten  in  his  woes, 
While  I  beside  my  sire  in  peace  repose." 

Now  fades  her  cheek,   her  voice  hath 

sunk,  and  death 

Sits  in  her  eye  and  struggles  in  her  breath. 
One  pang — 'tis  past :  her  task  on  earth  is 

done, 

And  the  pure  spirit  to  its  rest  hath  flown. 
But  he  for  whom  she  died— oh  I  who  may 

paint  [faint  ? 

The  grief  to  which  all  other   woes  were 
There  is  no  power  in  language  to  impart 
The  deeper  pangs,  the  ordeals  of  the  heart, 
By  the  dread  Searcher  of  the  soul  surveyed  : 
These  have  no  words—  nor  are  by  words 

portrayed. 

rv. 

A  DIRGE  is  rising  on  the  mountain  air, 
Whose  fitful  swells  in  plaintive  murmurs 

bear, 

Far  o'er  the  Alpuxarras.    Wild  its  tone, 
And  rocks  and  caverns   echo — Thou  art 

gone. 

"  Daughter  of  heroes  I  thou  art  gone 
To  share  his  tomb  who  gave  thee  birth  : 

Peace  to  the  lovely  spirit  flown  I 
It  was  not  formed  for  earth. 

Thou  wert  a  sunbeam  in  thy  race. 

Which  brightly  passed  and  left  no  trace, 

"  But  calmly  sleep  I — for  thou  art  tree, 
And  hands  unchained  thy  tomb  shall 
raise. 


Sleep  1  they  are  closed  at  length  for  thee, 

Life's  few  and  evil  days  I 
Nor  shall  thou  watch,  with  tearful  eye. 
The  lingering  death  of  liberty. 

"  Flower  of  the  Desert  1  thou  thy  bloom 
Didst  early  to  the  storm  resign  : 

We  bear  it  still — and  dark  their  doom. 
We  cannot  weep  for  thine  I 

For  us,  whose  every  hope  is  fled, 

The  time  is  past  to  mourn  the  dead. 

"  The  days  have  been,  when  o'er  thy  biei 
Far  other  strains  than  these  had  flowed 

Now,  as  a  home  from  grief  and  fear, 
We  hail  thy  dark  abode  I 

We,  who  but  linger  to  bequeath 

Our  sons  the  choice  of  chains  or  death. 

"  Thou  art  with  those,  the  free,  the  brave, 
The  mighty  of  departed  years  ; 

And  for  the  slumberers  of  the  grave 
Our  fate  hath  left  no  tears. 

Thou  loved  and  lost !  to  weep  were  vain 

For  thee,  who  ne'er  shall  weep  again. 

"  Have  we  not  seen  despoiled  by  foes 
The  land  bur  fathers  won  of  yore  ? 

And  is  there  yet  a  pang  for  those 
Who  gaze  on  this  no  more  ? 

Oh,  that  like  them  'twere;  ours  to  rest ! 

Daughter  of  heroes  I  thou  art  blest." 

A  few  short  years,  and  in  the  lonely  cave 
Where  sleeps  the  Zegri  maid,  is  Hamet'8 

grave, 

Severed  in  life,  united  in  the  tomb — 
Such,  of  the  hearts  that  loved  so  well,  the 

doom.  [moan , 

Their  dirge,  of  woods  and  waves  the  eternal 
Their  sepulchre,  the  pine-clad  rocks  alone. 
And  oft  beside  the  midnight  watch-fire's 

blaze,    . 

Amidst  those  rocks,  in  long-departed  days, 
(When  freedom  fled,  to  hold,  sequestered 

there, 

The  stern  and  lofty  councils  of  despair,) 
Some  exiled  Moor,  a  warrior  of  the  wild, 
Who  the  lone  hours  with  mournful  strains 

beguiled, 
Hath  taught  his  mountain-home  the  tale  of 

those 

Who  thus  have  sufiercd.  and  who  thus  re- 
pose. 


THE  WIDOW  OF  CRESCENTIUS. 


fin  the  reign  of  Otho  III.,  Emperor  of  Germany,  the  Romans,  excited  by  their  Consul 
Crescentius,  made  a  bold  attempt  to  shake  off  the  Saxon  yoke,  and  the  authority  of  the  Popc&. 
The  Consul  was  besieged  by  Otho,  in  the  Mole  of  Hadrian,  which  long  afterwards  continued  to 
be  called  the  Tower  of  Crescentius.  Otho,  after  many  unavailing  attacks  upon  this  fortress,  at 
last  entered  into  negotiations  ;  and,  pledging  his  imperial  word  to  respect  the  life  of  Crescentius 
and  the  rights  of  the  Roman  citiiens,  the  unfortunate  leader  was  betrayed  into  his  power,  and 
immediately  beheaded,  with  many  of  his  partisans.  Stephania,  his  widow,  concealing  her  afflic- 
tion and  her  resentment  for  the  insults  to  which  she  had  been  exposed,  secretly  resolved  to  revenge 
her  husband  and  herself.  On  the  return  of  Otho  from  a  pilgrimage  to  Mount  Gargano,  which 
perhaps  a  feeling  of  remorse  had  induced  him  to  undertake,  she  found  means  to  be  introduced  to 
him  and  to  gain  his  confidence :  and  a  poison  administered  by  her  was  soon  afterwards  the  cause 
of  his  painful  death.] 

"  L'orage  peut  briser  en  un  moment  leg  fleursqul  tiennent  encore  la  tete  levee."— MADAME 
DB  STABL. 


PART  FIRST. 
I. 

'MiDST  Tivoli's  luxuriant  glades, 
Bright-foaming  falls,  and  olive  shades, 
Where  dwelt  in  days  departed  long 
The  sons  of  battle  and  of  song, 
No  tree,  no  shrub,  its  foliage  rears 
But  o'er  the  wrecks  of  other  years, 
Temples  and  domes,  which  long  have  been 
The  soil  of  that  enchanted  scene. 
There  the  wild  fig-tree  and  the  vine 
O'er  Hadrian's  mouldering  Villa  twine  ; 
The  cypress,  in  funereal  grace, 
Usurps  the  vanished  column's  place  ; 
O'er  fallen  shrine  and  .ruined  frieze. 
The  wallflower  rustles  in  the  breeze ; 
Acanthus-leaves  the  marble  hide 
They  once  adorned  in  sculptured  pride ; 
And  Nature  hath  resumed  her  throne 
O'er  the  vast  works  of  ages  flown. 

Was  it  for  this  that  many  a  pile, 
Pride  of  Ilissus  and  of  Nile, 
To  Anio's  banks  the  image  lent 
Of  each  imperial  monument?* 
Now  Athens  weeps  her  shattered  fanes, 
Thy  temples,  Egypt  I  strew  thy  plains ; 
And  the  proud  fabrics  Hadrian  reared 
From  Tiber's  vale  have  disappeared. 
We  need  no  prescient  sibyl  there 
The  doom  of  grandeur  to  declare. 
Each  stone,  where  weeds  and  ivy  climb, 
Reveals  some  oracle  of  Time  ; 


*  The  gardens  and  buildings  of  Hadrian's 
villa  were  copies  of  the  most  celebrated  scenes 
»jjd  edifices  in  bis  dominions. 


Each  relic  utters  Fate's  decree— 
The  future  as  the  past  shall  be. 
Halls  of  the  dead  I  in  Tiber's  vale, 
Who  now  shall  tell  your  lofty  tale — 
Who  trace  the  high  patrician's  dome, 
The  bard's  retreat,  the  hero's  home — 
When  moss-clad  wrecks  alone  record 
There  dwelt  the  world's  departed  lord, 
In  scenes  where  verdure's  rich  array 
Still  sheds  young  beauty  o'er  decay, 
And  sunshine  on  ea<^  glowing  hill 
'Midst  ruins  finds  a  dwelling  still  ? 

Sunk  is  thy  palace— but  thy  Tomb, 
Hadrian  I  hath  shared  a  prouder  doom 
Though  vanished  with  the  days  of  old 
Its  pillars  of  Corinthian  mould ; 
Though  the  fair  forms  of  sculpture  wrought 
Each  bodying  some  immortal  thought, 
Which  o'er  that  temple  of  the  dead 
Serene  but  solemn  beauty  shed, 
Have  found,  like  glory's  self,  a  grave 
In  time's  abyss  or  Tiber's  wave  ; 
Yet'  dreams  more  lofty  and  more  fair 
Than  art's  bold  hand  hath  imaged  e'er- 
High  thoughts  otmany  a  mighty  mind 
Expanding  when  all  else  declined. 
In  twilight  years,  when  only  they 
Recalled  the  radiance  passed  away, 
Have  made  that  ancient  pile  their  home. 
Fortress  of  freedom  and  of  Rome. 

There  he,  who  strove  in  evil  days 
Again  to  kindle  glory's  rays, 
Whose  spirit  sought  a  path  of  light 
For  those  dim  ages  far  too  bright — 
Crescentius— long  maintained  the  strife 
Which  closed  but  with  its  martyr's  life. 


THE  WIDOW  OF  ORESCENTIUB. 


And  left  the  imperial  tornb  a  name. 
A  heritage  of  holier  fame. 
There  closed  De  Brescia's*  mission  high, 
From  thence  the  patriot  came  to  die  ; 
And  thou,  whose  Roman  soul  the  last 
Spoke  with  the  voice  of  ages  past, 
Whose  thoughts  so  long  from  earth  had  fled 
To  mingle  with  the  glorious  dead, 
That  "midst  the  world's  degenerate  race 
They  vainly  sought  a  dwelling-place, 
Within  that  house  of  death  didst  brood 
O'er  visions  to  thy  ruin  wooed. 
Yet,  worthier  of  a  brighter  lot, 
Rienzi !  be  thy  faults  forgot. 
For  thou,  when  all  around  thee  lay 
Chained  in  the  slumbers  of  decay — 
So  sunk  each  heart,  that  mortal  eye 
Had  scarce  a  tear  for  liberty — 
Alone,  amidst  the  darkness  there, 
Couldst  gaze  on  Rome — yet  not  despair  1 


'Tis  morn — and  nature's  richest  dyes 

Are  floating  o'er  Italian  skies ; 

Tints  of  transparent  lustre  shine 

Along  the  snow-clad  Apennine ; 

The  clouds  have  left  Soracte's  height, 

And  yellow  Tiber  winds  in  light, 

Where  tombs  and  fallen  fanes  have  strewed 

The  wide  Campagna's  solitude. 

'Tis  sad  amidst  that  scene  to  trace 

Those  relics  of  a  vanished  race ; 

Yet,  o'er  the  ravaged  path  of  time 

Such  glory  sheds  that  brilliant  clime— 

Where  nature  still,  though  empires  fall, 

Holds  her  triumphant  festival — 

Even  desolation  wears  a  smile, 

Where  skies  and  sunbeams  laugh  the  while ; 

And  heaven's  own  light,   earth's  richest 

bloom, 
Arrays  the  ruin  and  the  tomb. 

But  she,  who  from  yon  convent  tower 
Breathes  the  pure  freshness  of  the  hour  ; 
She,  whose  rich  flow  of  raven  hair 
Streams  wildly  on  the  morning  air, 
Heeds  not  how  fair  the  scene  below, 
Robed  in  Italia's  brightest  glow. 
Though  throned  'midst  Latium's  classic 

plains 

The  Eternal  City's  towers  and  fanes, 
And  they,  the  Pleiades  of  earth, 
The  seven  proud  hills  of  Empire's  birth. 

*  Arnold  de  Brescia  was  put  to  dtith  by 
Hadrian  IV. ;  he  was  the  champion  of  Roman 
liberty. 


Lie  spread  beneath  ;  not  now  her  ^.ance 
Roves  o'er  that  vast  sublime  expanse. 
Inspired,  and  bright  with  hope,  'tis  throw* 
On  Hadrian's  massy  tomb  alone. 
There,  from  the  storm  when  Freedom  fled, 
His  faithful  few  Crescentius  led  ; 
While  she,  his  anxious  bride,  who  now 
Bends  o'er  the  scene  her  youthful  brow, 
Sought  refuge  in  the  hallowed  fane. 
Which  then  could  shelter,  not  in  vain. 

But  now  the  lofty  strife  is  o'er, 
And  liberty  shall  weep  no  more. 
At  length  imperial  Otho's  voice 
Bids  her  devoted  sons  rejoice ; 
And  he,  who  battled  to  restore 
The  glories  and  the  rights  of  yore, 
Whose  accents,  like  the  clarion's  sound, 
Could  burst  the  dead  repose  around, 
Again  his  native  Rome  shall  see 
The  sceptred  city  of  the  free ! 
And  young  Stephania  waits  the  hour 
When  leaves  her  lord  his  fortress-tower— 
Her  ardent  heart  with  joy  elate, 
That  seems  beyond  the  reach  of  fate  ; 
Her  mien,  like  creature  from  above, 
All  vivified  with  hope  and  love. 

Fair  is  her  form,  and  in  her  eye 
Lives  all  the  soul  of  Italy  ; 
A  meaning  lofty  and  inspired, 
As  by  her  native  day-star  fired  ; 
Such  wild  and  high  expression,  fraught 
With  glances  of  impassioned  thought. 
As  fancy  sheds  in  visions  bright 
O'er  priestess  of  the  God  of  Light  ; 
And  the  dark  locks  that  lend  her  face 
A  youthful  ?nd  luxuriant  grace, 
Wave  o'er  her  cheek,  whose  kindling  dyes 
Seem  from  the  fire  within  to  rise, 
But  deepened  by  the  burning  heaven 
To  her  own  land  of  sunbeams  given. 
Italian  art  that  fervid  glow 
Would  o'er  ideal  beauty  throw, 
And  •  ith  such  ardent  life  express 
Her  high-wrought  dreams  of  loveliness, — 
Dr»ams  which.,  surviving  Empire's  fall, 
The  shade  of  glory  still  recall 

But  see  I — die  banner  of  the*  brave 
O'er  Hadrian's  tomb  hath  ceased  to  wave. 
Tis  lowered — and  now  Stephania's  eye 
Can  well  the  martial  train  descry, 
Who  issuing  from  that  ancient  dome, 
Pour  through  the  crowded  streets  of  Rome 
Now  from  her  watch-tower  on  the  height, 
With  steo  as  fabted  wood-nymph's  light, 


THE  WIDO  FT  OF  CRESCEATWS. 


87 


She  flies— and  swift  her  way  pursues 
Through  the  lone  convent's  avenues. 
Dark  cypress  groves,  and  fields  o'erspread 
With  records  of  .the  conquering  dead, 
And  paths  which  track  a  glowing  waste, 
She  traverses  in  breathless  haste  ; 
And  by  the  tombs  where  dust  is  shrined 
Once  tenanted  by  loftiest  mind, 
Still  passing  on,  hath  reached  the  gate 
Of  Rome,  the  proud,  the  desolate  1 
Thronged  are  the  streets,  and,  still  renewed, 
Rush  on  the  gathering  multitude. 
— Is  it  their  high-souled  chief  to  greet 
That  thus  the  Roman  thousands  meet — 
With  names  that  bid  their  thoughts  ascend] 
Crescentius  1  thine  in  song  to  blend  ; 
And  of  triumphal  days  gone  by 
Recall  the  inspiring  pageantry  ? 
— There  is  an  air  of  breathless  dread, 
An  eager  glance,  a  hurrying  tread  ; 
And  now  a  fearful  silence  round. 
And  now  a  fitful  murmuring  sound, 
'Midst  the  pale  crowds,  that  almost  seem 
Phantoms  of  some  tumultuous  dream. 
Quick  is  each  step  and  wild  each  mien, 
Portentous  of  some  awful  scene. 
Bride  of  Crescentius  1  as  the  throng 
Bore  thee  with  whelming  force  along, 
How  did  thine  anxious  heart  beat  high, 
Till  rose  suspense  to  agony  1 — 
Too  brief  suspense,  that  soon  shall  close, 
And  leave  thy  heart  to  deeper  woes. 

Who  "midst  yon  guarded  precincts  stands, 
With  fearless  mien  but  fettered  hands  ? 
The  ministers  of  death  are  nigh, 
Yet  a  calm  grandeur  lights  his  eye  ; 
And  in  his  glance  their  lives  a  mind 
Which  was  not  formed  for  chains  to  bind, 
But  cast  in  such  heroic  mould 
As  theirs,  the  ascendant  ones  of  old. 
Crescentius  1  freedom's  daring  son, 
Is  this  the  guerdon  thou  hast  won  ? 
Oh,  worthy  to  have  lived  and  died 
In  the  bright  days  of  Latium's  pride  I 
Thus  must  the  beam  of  glory  close 
O'er  the  same  hills  again  that  rose, 
When  at  thy  voice,  to  burst  the  yoke, 
The  soul  of  Rome  indignant  woke  ? 
Vain  dream  1  the  sacred  shields  are  gone,* 
Sunk  is  the  crowning  city's  throne  : 
The  illusions,  that  around  her  cast 
Their  guardian  spells,  have  long  been  past 


*  The  Ancilia,  or  sacred  bucklers,  which 
were  kept  in  the  temple  of  Mars,  and  were  corv 
tidered  the  Palladium  of  the  city. 


Thy  life  hath  been  a  shot-star's  ray 
Shed  on  her  midnight  of  decay  ; 
Thy  death  at  freedom's  ruined  shrine* 
Must  rivet  every  chain — but  thine. 

Calm  is  his  aspect,  and  his  eye 
Now  fixed  upon  the  deep  blue  sky, 
Mow  on  those  wrecks  of  ages  fled 
Around  in  desolation  spread — 
Arch,  temple,  column,  worn  and  grey. 
Recording  triumphs  passed  away  ; 
Works  of  the  mighty  and  the  free, 
Whose  steps  on  earth  no  more  shall  be, 
Though  their  bright  course  hath  left  a  trace 
Mor  years  nor  sorrow  can  efface. 
Why  changes  now  the  patriot's  rr.ien, 
Erewhile  so  loftily  serene  ? 
Thus  can  approaching  death  control 
The  might  of  that  commanding  soul  e 
Mo  I — Heard  ye  not  that  thrilling  cry 
Which  told  of  bitterest  agony  ?' 
He  heard  it,  and  at  once,  subdued , 
Hath  sunk  the  hero's  fortitude. 
He  heard  it,  and  his  heart  too  well 
Whence  rose  that  voice  of  woe  can  tell  ; 
And  'midst  the  gazing  throngs  around 
One   well-known   form    his   glance   hath 

found — 
Dne  fondly  loving  and  beloved, 
[n  grief,  in  peril,  faithful  proved. 
Yes  1  in  the  wildness  of  despair, 
She,  his  devoted  bride,  is  there. 
Pale,  breathless,   through  the  crowd  she 

flies, 

The  light  of  frenzy  in  her  eyes  : 
But  ere  her  eyes  can  clasp  the  form 
Which  life  ere  long  must  cease  to  warm— 
Ere  on  his  agonizing  breast 
Her  heart  can  heave,  her  head  can  rest- 
Checked  in  her  course  by  ruthless  hands. 
Mute,  motionless,  at  once  she  stands  ; 
With  bloodless  cheek  and  vacant  glance, 
Frozen  and  fixed  in  horror's  trance  ; 
Spell-bound,  as  every  sense  were  fled, 
And  thought  o'erwhelmed, and  feeling  dead; 
And  the  light  waving  of  her  hair, 
And  veil,  far  floating  on  the  air, 
Alone,  in  that  dread  moment,  show 
She  is  no  sculptured  form  of  woe. 

The  scene  of  grief  and  death  is  o'er, 
The  patriot's  heart  shall  throb  no  more  : 
But  furs — so  vainly  formed  to  prove 
The  pure  devotedness  of  love, 
And  draw  from  fond  affection's  eye 
All  thought  sublime,  all  feeling  high — 
When  consciousness  again  shall  wake, 
Hath  now  no  refuge  but  to  break. 


TEE  WIDOW  CF  CRESCENTIUS. 


The  spirit  long  inured  to  pain 
May  smile  at  fate  to  calm  disdain, 
Survive  its  darkest  hour,  and  rise 
In  more  majestic  energies. 
But  in  the  glow  of  vernal  pride, 
If  each  warm  hope  at  once  hath  died, 
Then  sinks  the  mind,  a  blighted  flower, 
Dead  to  the  sunbeam  and  the  shower ; 
A  broken  gem,  whose  inborn  light 
Is  scattered — ne'er  to  reunite. 


PART  SECOND. 
HAST  thou  a  scene  that  is  not  spread 
With  records  of  thy  glory  fled, 
A  monument  that  doth  not  tell 
The  tale  of  liberty's  farewell, 
Italia  ?    Thou  art  but  a  grave 
Where  flowers  luxuriate  o'er  the  brave, 
And  nature  gives  her  treasures  birth 
O'er  all  that  hath  been  great  on  earth. 
Vet  smile  thy  heavens  as  once  they  smiled 
When  thou  wert  freedom's  favoured  child : 
Though  fane  and  tomb  alike  are  low, 
Time  hath  not  dimmed  thy  sunbeam's  glow ; 
And,  robed  in  that  exulting  ray, 
Thou  seem'st  to  triumph  o'er  decay- 
On,  yet,  though  by  thy  sorrow  bent, 
An  nature's  pomp  magnificent ! 
What  marvel  if,  when  all  was  lost, 
Still  on  thy  bright  enchanted  coast, 
Though  many  an  omen  warned  him  thence, 
Lingered  the  lord  of  eloquence,* 
Still  gazing  on  the  lovely  sky, 
Whose  radiance  wooed  him — but  to  die '. 
Like  him,  who  would  not  linger  there, 
Where  heaven,  earth,  ocean,  all  are  fair? 
Who  'midst  thy  glowing  scenes  could  dwell, 
Nor  bid  awhile  his  griefs  farewell? 
Hath  not  thy  pure  and  genial  air 
Balm  for  all  sadness  but  despair? 

Nol  there  are  pangs  whose  deep-woia 

trace 

Not  all  thy  magic  can  efface ! 
Heart  by  unkindness  wrung  may  learn 
The  world  and  all  its  gifts  to  spurn  ; 
Time  may  steal  on  with  silent  tread, 
And  dry  the  tear  that  mourns  the  dead, 
May  change  fond  love,  subdue  regret, 
And  teach  even  vengeance  to  forget ; 
But  thou,  Remorse  1  there  is  no  charm 
Thy  sting,  avenger,  to  disarm  ! 
Vain  are  bright  suns  and  laughing  skies 
To  soothe  thy  victim's  agonies ; 


Hoaro. 


The  heart  once  made  thy  burning  throne 
Still,  while  it  beats,  is  thine  alone. 
— In  vain  for  Otho's  joyless  eye 
Smile  the  fair  scenes  of  Italy, 
As  through  her  landscapes'  rich  array 
The  imperial  pilgrim  bends  his  way. 
Thy  form,  Cresccntius  !  on  his  sight 
Rises  when  nature  laughs  in  light, 
Glides  round  him  at  the  midnight  hour, 
Is  present  in  his  festal  bower, 
With  awful  voice  and  frowning  mien, 
By  all  but  him  unheard,  unseen. 
Oh  1  thus  to  shadows  of  the  grave 
Be  every  tyrant  still  a  slave  ! 

Where,  through  Gargano's  woody  dells 
O'er  bending  oaks  the  north  wind  swells, 
A  sainted  hermit's  lowly  tomb 
Is  bosomed  in  umbrageous  gloom, 
In,  shades  that  saw  him  live.and  die 
Beneath  their  waving  canopy. 
'Twas  his,  as  legends  tell,  to  share 
The  converse  of  immortals  there  ; 
Around  that  dweller  of  the  wild 
There  ' '  bright  appearances"  have  smil«J« 
And  angel-wings  at  eve  have  been 
Gleaming  the  shadowy  boughs  between. 
And  oft  from  that  secluded  bower 
Hath  breathed,  at  midnight's  calmer  hour. 
A  swell  of  viewless  harps,  a  sound 
Of  warbled  anthems  pealing  round. 
Oh,  none  but  voices  of  the  sky 
Might  wake  that  thrilling  harmony, 
Whose  tones,  whose  very  echoes  made 
An  Eden  of  the  lonely  shade  ! 
Years  have  gone  by ;  the  hermit  sleeps 
Amidst  Gargano's  woods  and  steeps ; 
Ivy  and  flowers  have  half  o'ergrown 
And  veiled  his  low  sepulchral  stone : 
Yet  still  the  spot  is  holy,  still 
Celestial  footsteps  haunt  the  hill ; 
And  oft  the  awe-struck  mountaineer 
Aerial  vesper  hymns  may  hear 
Around  those  forest-precincts  float, 
Soft,  solemn,  clear,  but  still  remote. 
Oft  will  affliction  breathe  her  plaint 
To  that  rude  shrine's  departed  saint. 
And  deem  that  spirits  of  the  blest 
There  shed  sweet  influence  o'er  her  breast. 
— And  thither  Otho  now  repairs, 
To  soothe  his  soul  with  vfcws  and  prayers 
And  if  for  him,  on  holy  ground, 
The  lost  one,  Peace,  may  yet  be  found, 
"Midst  rocks  and  forests,  by  the  bed 
Where  calmly  sleep  the  sainted  dead, 
She  dwells,  remote  from  heedless  eye. 
With  nature's  lonely  majesty. 


TEE  WIDOW  OF 


89 


Vain,  vain    the    search  ! — his   troubled 

breast 

Nor  vow  nor  penance  lulls  to  rest ; 
The  weary  pilgrimage  is  o'er. 
The  hopes  that  cheered  it  are  no  more. 
Then  sinks  his  soul,  and  day  by  day 
Youth's  buoyant  energies  decay. 
The  light  of  health  his  eye  hath  flown, 
The  glow  that  tinged  his  cheek  is  gone. 
Joyless  as  one  on  whom  is  laid 
Some  baleful  spell  that  bids  him  fad?. 
Extending  its  mysterious  power 
O'er  every  scene,  o'er  every  hour  : 
Even  thus  he  withers  ;  and  to  hum 
Italia's  brilliant  skies  are  dim. 
He  withers — in  that  glorious  clime 
Where  Nature  laughs  in  scorn  of  1'ime  ; 
And  suns,  that  shed  on  all  below 
Their  full  and  vivifying  glow, 
From  him  alone  their  power  withhold, 
And  leave  his  heart  in  darkness  cold. 
Earth  blooms  around  him,  heaven  is  fair — 
He  only  seems  to  perish  there. 
— Yet  sometimes  will  a  transient  smile 
Play  o'er  his  faded  cheek  awhile, 
When  breathes  his  minstrel  boy  a  strain 
Of  power  to  lull  all  earthly  pain — 
So  wildly  sweet,  its  notes  might  seem 
The  ethereal  music  of  a  dream, 
A  spirit's  voice  from  world'  unknown, 
Deep  thrilling  power  tn  every  tone  1 
Sweet  is  that  lay  I  and  yet  its  flow 
Hath  language  only  given  to  woe  ; 
An'd  if  at  times  its  wakening  swell 
Some  tale  of  glory  seems  to  tell, 
Soon  the  proud  notes  of  triumph  die, 
Lost  in  a  dirge's  harmony. 
Oh  I  many  a  pang  the  heart  hath  proved, 
Hath  deeply  suffered,  fondly  loved, 
Ere  the  sad  strain  could  catch  from  thence 
Such  deep  impassioned  eloquence  I 

Yes  I  gaze  on  him,  that  minstrel  boy- 
He  is  no  child  of  hope  and  joy  I 
Though  few  his  years,  yet  have  they  been 
Such  as  leave  traces  on  the  mien, 
And  o'er  the  roses  of  our  prime 
Breathe  other  blights  than  those  of  time. 
Yet  seems  his  spirit  wild  and  proud, 
By  grief  unsoftened  and  unbowed. 
Oh  I  there  are  sorrows  which  impart 
A  sternness  foreign  to  the  heart, 
And,  rushing  with  an  earthquake's  power, 
That  makes  a  desert  in  an  hour, 
Rouse  the  dread  passions  in  their^course. 
As  tempest*  wake  the  billow's  force  i 
"Tis  sad,  on  youthful  Guide's  face, 
The  stamp  of  woes  like  these  to  trace.. 


Oh !  where  can  ruins  awe  mankind, 
Dark  as  the  ruins  of  the  mind  ? 
— His  mien  is  lofty,  but  his  gaze 
Too  well  a  wandering  soul  betrays ; 
His  full  dark  eye  at  times  is  bright 
With  strange  and  momentary  light. 
Whose  quick  uncertain  flashes  throw 
O'er  his  pale  cheek  a  hectic  glow  : 
And  oft  his  features  and  his  air 
A  shade  of  troubled  mystery  wear, 
A  glance  of  hurried  wi'ldness,  fraught 
With  some  unfathomable  thought : 
Whate'er  that  thought,  still  unexpressed 
Dwells  the  sad  secret  in  his  breast ; 
The  pride  his  haughty  brow  reveals 
All  other  passion  well  conceals — 
He  breathes  each  wounded  feeling's  tone 
In  music's  eloquence  alone  ; 
His  soul's  deep  voice  is  only  poured 
Through  his  full  song  and  swelling  chord 

He  seeks  no  friend,  but  shuns  the  train 
Of  courtiers  with  a  proud  disdain  ;    • 
And,  save  when  Otho  bids  his  lay 
Its  half  unearthly  power  essay 
In  hall  or  bower  the  heart  to  thrill. 
His  haunts  are  wild  and  lonely  stilL 
Far  distant  from  the  heedless  throne, 
He  roves  old  Tiber's  banks  along, 
Where  Empire's  desolate  remains 
Lie  scattered  o'er  the  silent  plains  ; 
Or,  lingering  'midst  each  ruined  shrine 
That  strews  the  desert  Palatine, 
With  mournful  yet  commanding  mioii. 
Like  the  sad  Genius  of  the  scene, 
Entranced  in  awful  thought,  appears 
To  commune  with  departed  years. 
Or  at  the  dead  of  night,  when  Rome 
Seems  of  heroic  shades  the  home  ; 
W/hen  Tiber's  murmuring  voice  recall!) 
The  mighty  to  their  ancient  halls  ; 
When  hushed  in  every  meaner  sound. 
And  the  deep  moonlight-calm  arour.c! 
Leaves  to  the  solemn  scene  alone 
The  majesty  of  ages  flown — 
A  pilgrim  to  each  hero's  tomb, 
He  wanders  through  the  sacred  gloom 
And  midst  those  dwellings  of  decay 
At  times  will  breathe  so  sad  a  lay, 
So  wild  a  grandeur  in  each  tone, 
'Tis  like  a  dirge  for  empires  gon«  I 

Awake  thy  pealing  harp  again, 
But  breathe  a  more  exulting  strain,  ^ 
Young  Guide  1  for  awhile  forgot 
Be  the  dark  secrets  of  thy  lot" 
And  rouse  the  inspiring  soul  of  song 
To  speed  the, banquet's  hoar  along  t— 


'90 


THE  WIDO  ir  OF  CRESCENTIUK 


The  feast  Is  spread,  and  music's  call 

Is  echoing  through  the  royal  hall, 

And  banners  wave  and  trophies  shine1 

O'er  stately  guests  in  glittering  line  ; 

And  Otho  seeks  awhile  to  chase 

The  thoughts  he  never  can  erase, 

And  bid  the  vo'ce,  whose  murmurs  deep 

Rise  like  a  spirit  on  his  sleep— 

The  still  small  voice  of  conscience — die 

Lost  in  the  dm  of  revelry. 

On  his  pale  brow  dejection  lours, 

But  that  shall  yield  to  festal  hours  ; 

A  gloom  is  in  his  faded  eye, 

But  that  from  music's  power  shall  fly  , 

His  wasted  cheek  is  wan  with  care. 

But  mirth  shall  spread  fresh  crimson  there. 

Wake,  Guido  !  wake  thy  numbers  high. 

Strike  the  bold  chord  exultingly  ; 

And  pour  upon  the  enraptured  ear 

Such  strains  as  warriors  love  to  hear  I 

Let  the  rich  mantling  goblet  flow, 

And  banish  aught  resembling  woe  ; 

And  if  a  thought  intrude,  of  power 

To  mar  the  bright  convivial  hour, 

Still  must  its  influence  lurk  unseen, 

And  cloud  the  heart— but  not  the  mien  I 

Away,  vain  drecm  !  On  Otho's  brow, 
Still  darker  lour  the  shadows  now  ; 
Changed  are  his  features,  now  o'erspread 
With  the  cold  paleness  of  the  dead ; 
Now  crimsoned  with  a  hectic  dye, 
The  burning  flush  of  agony  I 
His  lip  is  quivering,  and  his  breast 
Heaves  with  convulsive  pangs  oppressed  ; 
Now  his  dim  eye  seems  fixed  and  glazed, 
And  now  to  heaven  in  anguish  raised  ; 
And  as,  with  unavailing  aid, 
Around  him  throng  his  guests  dismayed, 
He  sinks — while  scarce  his  struggling  breath 
Hath  power  to  falter— "This  is  death  1" 

Then  rushed  that  haughty  child  of  song, 
Dark  Guido,  through  the  awe-struck  throng. 
Filled  with  a  strange  delirious  light, 
His  kindling  eye  shone  wildly  bright  ; 
And  on  the  sufferer's  mien  awhile 
Gazing  with  stern  vindictive  smile, 
A  feverish  glow  of  triumph  dyed 
His  burning  cheek,  while  thus  he  cried  :— 
"  Yes  !  these  are  death-pangs — on  thy  brow 
fs  set  the  seal  of  vengeance  now  I 
Oh  !  well  was  mixed  the  deadly  draught, 
And  long  and  deeply  hast  thou  quaffed  ; 
And  bitter  as  thy  pangs  may  be, 
They  are  but  guerdons  meet  from  me  ! 
Yet  these  are  but  a  moment's  throes — 
Howe'er  intense,  they  soon  shall  close. 


Soon  shall  thou  yield  thy  fle»  ^ing  breath— 
My  life  hath  been  a  lingering  death, 
Since  one  dark  hour  of  woe  and  crime, 
A  blood-spot  on  the  page  of  time  1 

•'  Deem'st  thou  my  mind  of  reason  void  ': 
It  is  not  frenzied— but  destroyed  I 
Ay  I    view    the   week    with    shudderinc 

thought- 
Thai  work  of  ruin  thou  hast  wrought  I 
The  secret  of  thy  doom -to  tell 
My  name  alone  suffices  well — 
Stephania  I  once  a  hero's  bride  ! 
Otho  1  thou  know'st  the  resl :  he  died. 
Yes  !  Irusting  to  a  monarch's  word, 
The  Roman  fell,  untried,  unheard. 
And  thou,  whose  every  pledge  was  vain, 
How  couldst  thou  trust  in  aught  again  ?     ' 

"  He  died,  and  I  was  changed— my  soul 
A  lonely  wanderer,  spurned  control. 
From  peace,  and  light,  an'd  glory  hurled. 
The  outcast  of  a  purer  world, 
I  saw  each  brighter  hope  o'erthrown, 
And  lived  for  one  dread  task  alone. 
The  task  is  closed,  fulfilled  the  vow— 
The  hand  of  death  is  on  thee  now. 
Betrayer  !  in  thy  turn  betrayed, 
The  debt  of  blood  shall  soon  be  paid 
Thine  hour  is  come.    The  time  hath  beei 
My  heart  had  shrunk  from  such  a  scene  : 
That  feeling  long  is  pasl— my  fate 
Hath  made  me  stern  as  desolate. 

"  Ye  that  around  me  shuddering  stand. 
Ye  chiefs  and  princes  of  the  land  1 
Mourn  ye  a  guilty  monarch  s  doom  / 
Ye  wept  not  o'er  the  patriot's  tomb  I 
He  sleeps  unhonoured — yet  be  mine 
To  share  his  low  neglected  shrine. 
His  soul  with  freedom  finds  a  home, 
His  grave  is  that  of  glory— Rome  I 
Are  not  the  great  of  old  wiih  her. 
The  city  of  the  sepulchre  ? 
Lead  me  to  death  I  and  let  me  share 
The  slumbers  of  the  mighty  there  I" 

The  day  departs— that  fearful  day 
Kades  in  calm  loveliness  away. 
From  purple  heavens  its  lingering  beam 
Seems  melting  into  Tiber's  stream, 
And  softly  tints  each  Roman  hill 
With  glowing  light,  as  clear  and  still 
As  if,  unstained  by  crime  or  woe, 
Its  hours  had  passed  in  silent  flow. 
The  day  sets  calmly— it  hath  been 
Marked  with  a  strange  and  awful  scene  • 
One  guilty  bosom  throbs  no  more, 
And  Otho's  pangs  and  life  are  o'er. 


THE  LAST  BANQUET  OF  A  NTONT  AND  CLEOPATRA.    91 


And  thou,  ere  yet  another  sun 
His  burning  race  hath  brightly  run, 
Released  from  anguish  by  thy  foes, 
Daughter  of  Rome  I  shalt  find  repose. 
Yes  1  on  fhy  country's  lovely  sky 
Fix  yet  once  more  thy  parting  eye. 
A  few  short  hours — and  all  shall  be 
The  silent  and  the  past  for  thee. 


Oh  I  thus  with  tempests  of  a  day 
We  struggle  and  we  p*5s  away, 
Like  the  wild  billows  as  they  sweep 
Leaving  no  vestige  on  the  deep  I 
And  o'er  thy  dark  and  lowly  bed 
The  sons  of  future  days  shall  tread, 
The  pangs,  the  conflicts  of  thy  lot 
,By  them  unknown,  by  thee  forgot. 


THE  LAST  BANQUET  OF  ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 

["  Antony  concluding  that  he  could  not  die  more  honourably  than  in  battle,  determined  to 
attack  Caesar  at  the  same  time  both  by  sea  and  land.  _  The  night  preceding  the  execution  of  this 
design,  he  ordered  his  servants  at  supper  to  reader  him  their  best  services  that  evening,  and  fill 
the  wine  round  plentifully,  for  the  day  following  they  might  belong  to  another  master,  whilst  he 
lay  extended  on  the  ground,  no  longer  of  consequence  either  to  them  or  to  himself.  ....  At  the 
dead  of  night,  when  universal  silence  reigned  through  the  city — a  silence  that  was  deepened  by  the 
awful  thought  of  the  ensuing  day— on  a  sudden  was  heard  the  sound  of  musical  instruments,  and 
a  noiie  which  resembled  the  exclamations  of  Bacchanals.  This  tumultuous  procession  seemed  to 
pass  through  the  whole  city,  and  to  go  out  at  the  gate  which  led  to  the  enemy's  camp.  Those 
who  reflected  on  this  prodigy  concluded  that  Bacchus,  the  god  whom  Antony  affected  to  imitate, 
had  then  forsaken  him."— PLUTARCH.] 


THY  foes  had  girt  thee  with  their  dread 

array, 

O  stately  Alexandria  1  yet  the  sound 

Of  mirth  and  music,  at  the  close  of  day, 

Swelled  from  thy  splendid  fabrics  far 

around  [hall 

O'er  camp  and  wave.    Within  the  royal 

In  gay  magnificence  the  feast  was  spread ; 

And,  brightly  streaming  from  the  pictured 

wall,  [shed 

A  thousand  lamps  their  trembling  lustre 

O'er  many  a  column,  rich  with  precious 

dyes,  [burning  skies. 

That  tinge  the  marble's  vein  'neath  Afric's 

And  soft  and  clear  that  .wavering  radiance 

played 
O'er  sculptured  forms  that  round  the 

pillared  scene 
Calm  and  majestic  rose,  by  art  arrayed 

In  godlike  beauty,  awfully  serene. 
Oh !  how  unlike  the  troubled  guests,  reclined 
Round  that  luxurious  board !  in  every  face 
Some  shadow  from  the  tempest  of  the  mind, 
Rising  by  fits,  the  searching  eye  might 
trace,  [not  mirth, 

Though  vainly  masked  in  smiles  which  are 
But  the  proud  spirit's  veil  thrown  o'er  the 
woes  of  earth. 

Their  brows  are  bound  with  wreaths,  whose 

transient  bloom  [rose 

May  still  survive  tbe  wearers — and  the 


Perchance  be  scarcely  withered,  when  the 

tomb 

Receives  the  mighty  to  its  dark  repose  I 
The  day  must  dawn  on  battle,  and  may  set 
In  death — but  fill  the  mantling  wine-cup 

high! 
Despair  is  fearless,  and  the  Fates  even  yet 

Lend  her  one  hour  for  parting  revelry. 
They  who  the  empire  of  the  world  possessed 
Would  taste  its  joys  again,  ere  all  exchanged 
for  rest. 

Its  joys  I  oh,  mark  yon  proud  Triumvir's 

mien,  [care  I 

And  read  their  annals  on  that  brow  of 

'Midst  pleasure's  lotus-bowers  his  steps  have 

been :  [despair. 

Earth's  brightest  pathway  led  him  to 

Trust  not  the  glance  that  fain  would  yet 

inspire 

The  buoyant  energies  of  days  gone  by ; 
There  is  delusion  in  its  meteor-fire, 

And  all  within  is  shame,  is  agony ! 
Away !  the  tears  in  bitterness  may  flow, 
But  there  are  smiles  which  bear  a  stamp  of 
deeper  woe. 

Thy  cheek  is  sunk,   and  faded  as  thy 

fame, 

O  lost  devoted  Roman  !  yet  thy  brow, 
To  that  ascendant  and  undying  name, 
Pleads  with  stern  loftiness  thy  right  even 
cow. 


92    THE  LAST  BANQUET  OF  ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


Thy  glory  is  departed,  but  hath  left 

A  lingering  light  around  thee :  in  decay 

Not  less  than  kingly— though  of  all  bereft, 

Thou  seem'st  as  empire  had  not  passed 

away. 

Supreme  in  ruin  1  teaching  hearts  elate 
A  deep  prophetic  dread  of  still  mysterious 
fate! 

[hath  made 
But  thou,  enchantress  queen  1  whose  love 

His  desolation — thou  art  by  his  side, 
In  all  thy  sovereignty  of  charms  arrayed, 
To  meet   the   storm  with  still  uccon- 

quered  pride. 
Imperial  being !  even  though  many  a  stain 

Of  error  be  upon  thee,  there  is  power 
In  thy  commanding  nature,  which  shall 
reign  [hour ; 

O'er  the  stern  genius    of  misfortune's 
And  the  dark  beauty  of  thy  troubled  eye 
Even  now  is  all  illumed  with  wild  sublimity. 

Thine  aspect,   all  impassioned,    wears  a 

light 

Inspiring  and  inspired — thy  cheek  a  dye, 
Which  rises  not  from  joy,  but  yet  is  bright 
With  the  deep  glow  of  feverish  energy. 
Proud  Siren  of  the  Nile  1  thy  glance  is 

fraught 

With  an  immortal  fire  :  in  every  beam 
It  darts,  there  kindles  some  heroic  thought, 

But  wild  and  awful  as  a  sibyl's  dream. 
For  thou  with  death  hast  communed  to 
attain  [from  the  chain. 

Dread  knowledge  of  the  pangs  that  ransom 

And  the  stern  courage  by  such  musings  lent, 

Daughter  of  Afric  1  o'er  thy  beauty  throws 
The  grandeur  of  a  regal  spirit,  blent 

With  all  the  majesty  of  mighty  woes. 
While  he,  so  fondly,  fatally  adored, 

Thy  fallen  Roman,  gazes  on  thee  yet, 
Till  scarce  the  soul  that  once  exulting  soared 

Can  deem  the  day-star  of  its  glory  set ; 
Scarce  his  charmed   heart    believes  that 
power  can  be  [by  thee. 

In  sovereign  fate,  o'er  him  thus  fondly  loved 

But  there  is  sadness  in  the  eyes  around, 

Which  mark  that  ruined  leader,   and 

survey  [profound 

His  changeful  mien,  whence  oft  the  gloom 

Strange  triumph  chases  haughtily  away. 

"Fill  the  bright  goblet,  warrior  guests!" 

he  cries ;  [deep  1 

"  Quaff,  ere  we  part,  the  generous  nectar 
Ere  sunset  gild  once  more  the  western  skies, 

Your  chief  in  cold  forgetfulness  may  sleep, 


While  sounds  of  revel  float  o'er  shore  and 

sea,  [not  for  me. 

And  the  red  bowl  again  is  crowned — but 

"  Yet  weep  not  thus.    The  struggle  is  no* 

o'er, 

O  victors  of  Philippi  I    Many  a  field 
Hath  yielded  palms  to  us  :  one  effort  more  I 
By  one  stem  conflict  must  our  doom  be 

sealed. 

Forget  not,  Romans  I  o'er  a  subject  world 
How  royally   your   eagle's  wing    hath 

f-  -ad, 

Thou     ,  from  his  eyrie  of  dominion  hurled, 
Now  bursts  the  tempest  on  his  crested 

head. 

Yet  sovereign  still,  if  banished  from  the  sky, 
The  sun's  indignant  bird,   he  must  not 
droop — but  die." 

The  feast  is  o'er.    Tis  night,  the  dead  of 

night —  [deep ; 

Unbroken  stillness  broods  o'er  earth  and 

From  Egypt's  heaven  of  soft  and  starry 

light  [sleep. 

The  moon  looks  cloudless  o'er  a  world  of 

For  those  who  wait  the  mom's  awakening 

beams, 

The  battle-signal  to  decide  their  doom, 
Have  sunk  to  feverish  rest  and  troubled 

dreams  ;— 
Rest  that  shall  soon  be  calmer  in  the 

tomb  ; 
Dreams  dark  and  ominous,  but  there  to 

cease, 

When  sleep  the  lords  of  war  in  solitude 
and  peace. 

Wake,  slumberer !  wake  !  Hark  I  heard  ye 

not  a  sound  [still 

Of  gathering  tumult?    Near  and  nearer 

Its  murmur  swells.   Above,  below,  around, 

Bursts  a  strange  chorus  forth,  confused 

and  shrill 
Wake,  Alexandria  1  through  thy  streets  the 

tread 

Of  steps  unseen  is  hurrying,  and  the  note 
Of  pipe,  and  lyre,  and  trumpet,  wild  and 

dread 

Is  heard  upon  the  midnight  air  to  float ; 
And  voices  clamorous  as  in  frenzied  mirth, 
Mingle  their  thousand  tones,  which  are  not 

of  the  earth. 

These  are  no  mortal  sounds !  Their  thrilling 

strain 

Hath  more  mysterious  power,  and  birtb 
more  high ; 


ALARIC  IN  ITALY. 


And  the  deep  horror  chilling  every  vein 
Owns  them  of  stern  terrific  augury. 

Beings    of    worlds   unknown  1    ye    pass 

away, 
O  yc  invisible  and  awful  throng  I 


Your  echoing  footsteps  and  resounding  lay 

To  Caesar's  camp  exulting  move  along. 
Thy  gods  forsake  thee,  Antony  !  The  sky 
By  that  dread  sign  reveals  thy  doom- 
Despair  and  die  1 


ALARIC  IN  ITALY. 


[After  describing  the  conquest  of  Greece  and  Italy  by  the  German  and  Scythian  hordes  united 
under  the  command  of  Alaric,  and  narrating  how  they  were  foiled  by  a  tempest  in  the  first  attempt 
at  the  invasion  of  Sicily,  the  historian  of  The  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire  thus  pro- 
ceeds : — "  The  whole  design  was  defeated  by  the  premature  death  of  Alaric,  which  fixed,  after  a 
short  Illness,  the  fatal  term  of  his  conquests.  The  ferocious  character  of  the  barbarians  was  dis- 
played in  the  funeral  of  a  hero,  whose  valour  and  fortune  they  celebrated  with  mournful  applause, 
By  the  labour  of  a  captive  multitude  they  forcibly  diverted  the  course  of  the  Busentinus,  a  small 
river  that  washes  the  walls  of  Consentia.  The  royal  sepulchre,  adorned  with  the  splendid  spoils 
and  trophies  of  Rome,  was  constructed  in  the  vacant  bed ;  the  waters  were  then  restored  to  their 
natural  channel,  and  the  secret  spot  where  the  rerriains  of  Alaric  had  been  deposited  was  for  ever 
concealed  by  the  inhuman  massacre  of  the  prisoners  who  liad  been  employed  to  execute  the  work."] 


HEARD  ye  the  Gothic  trumpet's  blast, 
The  march  of  hosts  as  Alaric  passed? 
His  steps  have  tracked  that  glorious  clime, 
The  birthplace  of  heroic  time  ; 
But  he,  in  Northern  deserts  bred, 
Spared  not  the  living  for  the  dead, 
Nor  heard  the  voice  whose  pleading  cries 
From  temple  and  from  tomb  arise. 
He  passed — the  light  of  burning  fanes 
Hath  been  his  torch  o'er  Grecian  plains  ; 
And  woke  they  not — the  brave,  the  free, 
To  guard  their  own  Thermopylas  I 
And  left  they  not  their  silent  dwelling, 
When  Scythia's  note  of  war  was  swelling  ? 
No  1  where  the  bold  Three  Hundred  slept, 
Sad  Freedom  battled  not — but  wept  I 
For  nerveless  then  the  Spartan's  hand, 
And  Thebes  could  rouse  no  Sacred  Band  ; 
Nor  one  high  soul  from  slumber  broke 
When  Athens  owned  the  northern  yoke. 

But  was  there  none  for  thet  to  dare 
The  conflict,  scorning  to  despair, 
O  City  of  the  seven  proud  hills  I 
Whose  name  even  yet  the  spirit  thrills, 
A3  doth  a  clarion's  battle-call  ? 
Didst  thou,  too,  ancient  empress,  fall  ? 
Did  no  Camillus  from  the  chain 
Ransom  thy  Capitol  again  ? 
Oh,  who  shall  tell  the  days  to  be 
No  patriot  rose  to  bleed  for  thee ! 

Heard  ye  the  Gothic  trumpet's  blast, 
The  march  of  hosts  as  Alaric  passed  ? 


That  fearful  sound,  at  midnight  deep, 
Bursts  on  the  Eternal  City's  sleep.* 
How  woke  the  mighty  ?    She  whose  will 
So  long  had  bid  the  world  be  still, 
Her  sword  a  sceptre,  and  her  eye 
The  ascendant  star  of  destiny  I 
She  woke — to  view  the  dread  array 
Of  Scythians  rushing  to  their  prey — 
To  hear  her  streets  resound  the  cries 
Poured  from  a  thousand  agonies. 
While  the  strange  light  of  flames,  that  gave 
A  ruddy  glow  to  Tiber's  wave, 
Bursting  in  that  terrific  hour 
From  fane  and  palace,  dome  and  tower, 
Revealed  the  throngs,  for  aid  divine 
Clinging  to  many  %  worshipped  shrine. 
Fierce  fitful  radiance  wildly  shed 
O'er  spear  and  sword,  with  carnage  red, 
Shone  o'er  the  suppliant  and  the  flying. 
And  kindled  pyres  for  Romans  dying 

Weep,  Italy  1    Alas,  that  e'er 
Should  tears  alone  thy  wrongs  declare  ! 
The  tirre  hath  been  when  thy  distress 
Had  rou.'ed  up  empires  for  redress. 
Now,  her  long  race  of  glory  run, 
Without  a  combat  Rome  is  won, 
And  from  her  plundered  temples  forth 
Rush  the  fierce  children  of  the  North, 


*  "At  the  hour  of  midnight  the  Salarian  Gate 
was  silently  opened,  and  the  inhabitants  were 
awakened  by  the  tremendous  sound  of  the  Gothic 
trumpet."— GIBSON. 


ALARIC  IN  ITALY. 


To  share  beneath  more  genial  skies 
Each  joy  their  own  rude  clime  denies. 
— Ye  who  on  bright  Campania's  shore 
Bade  your  fair  villas  rise  of  yore, 
With  all  their  graceful  Colonnades 
And  crystal  baths  and  myrtle  shades^ 
Along  the  blue  Hesperian  deep, 
Whose  glassy  waves  in  sunshine  sleep- 
Beneath  your  olive  and  your  vine 
Far  other  inmates  now  recline  ; 
And  the  tall  plane,  whose  roots  ye  fed 
With  rich  libations  duly  shed, 
O'er  guests,  unlike  your  vanished  friends, 
Its  bowery  canopy  extends. 
For  them  the  southern  heaven  is  glowing, 
The  bright  Falernian  nectar  flowing  ; 
For  them  the  marble  halls  unfold, 
Where  nobler  beings  dwelt  of  old, 
Whose  children  for  barbarian  lords 
Touch  the  sweet  lyre's  resounding  chords, 
Or  wreaths  of  Psestan  roses  twine 
To  crown  the  sons  of  Elbe  and  Rhine. 
Yet,  though  luxurious  they  repose 
Beneath  Corinthian  porticoes — 
While  round  them  into  being  start 
The  marvels  of  triumphant  art — 
Oh  !  not  for  them  hath  Genius  giver. 
To  Parian  stone  the  fire  of  heaven, 
Enshrining  in  the  forms  he  wrought 
A  bright  eternity  of  thought. 
In  vain  the  natives  of  the  skies 
In  breathing  marble  round  them  rise, 
And  sculptured  nymphs  of  fount  or  glade 
People  the  dark-green  laurel  shade. 
Cold  are  the  conqueror's  heart  and  eye 
To  visions  of  divinity : 
And  rude  his  hand  which  dares  deface 
The  models  of  immortal  grace. 

Arouse  ye  from  your  soft  delights ! 
Chieftains  I  the  war-note's  call  invites  ; 
And  other  land1:  must  yet  be  won,' 
And  other  deeds  of  havoc  done. 
Warriors !  your  flowery  bondage  break 
Sons  of  the  stormy  North  !  awake. 
The  barks  are  launching  from  the  steep — 
Soon  shall  the  Isle  of  Ceres*  weep, 
And  Afric's  burning  winds  afar 
Waft  the  shrill  sounds  of  Alaric's  war. 
Where  shall  his  race  of  victory  close  ? 
When  shall  the  ravaged  earth  repose  ? 
But  hark  1  what  wildly  mingling  cries 
From  Scythia's  camp  tumultuous  rise  ? 
Why  swells  dread  Alaric's  name  on  air? 
A  sterner  conqueror  hath  been  there  I 


Slefiy 


A  conqueror — yet  his  paths  are  peace, 
He  comes  to  bring,  the  world's  release, 
He  of  the  sword  that  knows  no  sheath, 
The  avenger,  the  deliverer — Death  I 

Is,  then,  that  daring  spirit  fled  ? 
Doth  Alaric  slumber  with  the  dead  ? 
Tamed  are  the  warrior's  pride  and  strength, 
And  he  and  earth  are  calm  at  length. 
The  laud  where  heaven  unclouded  shines, 
Where  sleep  the  sunbeams  on  the  vines ; 
The  land  by  conquest  made  his  own, 
Can  yield  him  now — a  grave  alone. 
But  his — her  lord,  from  Alp  to  sea— 
No  common  sepulchre  shall  be  I 
Oh  !  make  his  tomb  where  mortal  eye 
Its  buried  wealth  may  ne'er  descry, 
Where  mortal  foot  may  never  tread 
Above  a  victor-monarch's  bed. 
Let  not  his  royal  dust  be  hid 
'Neath  star-aspiring  pyramid  ; 
Nor  bid  the  gathered  mound  arise 
To  bear  his  memory  to  the  skies. 
Years  roll  away — oblivion  claims 
Her  triumph  o'er  heroic  names ; 
And  hands  profane  disturb  the  clay 
That  once  was  fired  with  glory's  ray  ; 
And  Avarice  from  their  secret  gloom 
Drags  even  the  treasures  of  the  tomb. 
But  thou,  O  leader  of  the  free  I 
That  general  doom  awaits  not  thee  : 
Thou,  where  no  steps  may  e'er  intrude, 
Shalt  rest  in  regal  solitude. 
Till,  bursting  on  thy  sleep  profound, 
The  Awakener's  final  trumpet  sound. 
— Turn  ye  the  waters  from  their  course, 
Bid  nature  yield  to  human  force, 
And  hollow  in  the  torrent's  bed 
A  chamber  for  the  mighty  dead. 
The  work  is  done— the  captive's  hand 
Hath  well  obeyed  his  lord's  command. 
Within  that  royal  tomb  are  cast 
The  richest  trophies  of  the  past, 
The  wealth  of  many  a  stately  dome, 
The  gold  and  gems  of  plundered  Rome. 
And  when  the  midnight  stars  are  beaming 
And  ocean  waves  in  stillness  gleaming, 
Stern  in  their  grief,  his  warriors  bear 
The  Chastener  of  the  Nations  there  ; 
To  rest  at  length  from  victory's  toil, 
Alone,  with  all  an  empire's  spoil  I 

Then  the  freed  current's  rushing  wave 
Rolls  o'er  the  secret  of  the  grave  ; 
Then  streams  the  martyr-captive's  blood 
To  crimson  that  sepulchral  flood, 
Whose  conscious  tide  alone  shall  keep 
The  mystery  in  its  bosom  deep 


TEE  WTFE  OF 


95 


Time  hath  passed  on  since  then — and  swept 
From  earth  the  urns  where  heroes  slept ; 
Temples  of  gods  and  domes  of  kings 
Are  mouldering  with  forgotten  things : 


Yet  not  shall  ages  e'er  molest 
The  viewless  home  of  Alaric's  rest : 
Still  rolls,  like  them,  the  unfailing  river. 
The  guardian  of  his  dust  for  evsjr 


THE  WIFE    OF  ASDRUBAL. 

["  This  governor,  who  had  braved  death  when  it  was  at  a  distance,  and  protested  lhat  the  sun 
should  never  see  him  survive  Carthage— this  fierce  Asdrubal  was  so  mean-spirited  as  to  come  alone, 
and  privately  throw  himself  at  the  conqueror's  feet.  The  general,  pleased  to  see  his  proud  rival 
humbled,  granted  his  life,  and  kept  him  to  grace  his  triumph.  The  Carthaginians  in  the  citadel 
;io  sooner  understood  that  their  commander  had  abandoned  the  place,  than  they  threw  open  the 
gates,  and  put  the  proconsul  in  possession  of  Byrsa.  The  Romans  had  now  no  enemy  to  contend 
with  but  the  nine  hundred  deserters,  who,  being  reduced  to  despair,  retired  into  the  temple  of 
Esculapius,  which  was  a  second  citadel  within  the  first :  there  the  proconsul  attacked  them  ;  and 
these  unhappy  wretches,  finding  there  was  no  way  to  escape,  set  fire  to  the  temple.  As  the  flames 
spread,  they  retreated  from  one  part  to  another,  till  they  got  to  the  roof  of  the  building  :  there 
Asdrubal's  wife  appeared  in  her  best  apparel,  as  if  the  day  of  her  death  had  been  a  day  of  triumph , 


hy  two  children.'  Having  thus 
spoken,  she  drew  out  a  dagger,  stabbed  them  both,  and  while  they  were  yet  struggling  for  life, 
threw  them  from  the  top  of  the  temple,  and  leaped  down  after  them  into  the  flames."— Ancient 
Universal  History.} 


THE  sun  sets  brightly — but  a  ruddier  glow 
O'er  Afric's  heaven  the  flames  of  Carthage 

throw ; 

Her  walls  have  sunk,  and  pyramids  of  fire 
In  lurid  splendour  from  her  domes  aspire ; 
Swayed  by  the  wind,  they  wave— while 

glares  the  sky 

As  when  the  desert's  red  simoom  is  nigh  ; 
The  sculptured  altar  and  the  pillared  hall 
Shine  out  in  dreadful  brightness  ere  they 

fall; 

For  o'er  the  seas  the  light  of  ruin  streams, 
Rock,  wave,  and  isle  are  crimsoned  by  its 
beams ;  [chains, 

While  captive  thousands,  bound  in  Roman 
Gaze  in  mute  horror  on  their  burning  fanes ; 
And  shouts  of  triumph,  echoing  far  around, 
Swell  from  the  victors'  tents,  with  ivy 
crowned.*  [height 

But  mark !  from  yon  fair  temple's  loftiest 
What  towering  form  bursts  wildly  on  the 
All  regal  in  magnificent  attire,          [sight, 
And  sternly  beauteous  in  terrific  ire  ? 
She  might  be  deemed  a  Pythia  in  the  hour 
Of  dread  communion  and  delirious  power ; 
A  being  more  than  earthly,  in  whose  eye 
There  dwells  a  strange  and  fierce  ascen- 
dancy. 

•  It  was  *  Roman  custom  to  adorn  the  teats 
of  victors  with  ivy 


The  flames  are  gathering  round— intensely 

bright, 
Full  on  her  features  glares  their  meteor 

light ; 

But  a  wild  courage  sits  triumphant  there, 
The  stormy  grandeur  of  a  proud  despair ; 
A  daring  spirit,  in  its  woes  elate, 
Mightier  than  death,  untameable  by  fate. 
The  dark  profusion  of  her  locks  unbound, 
Waves  like  a  warrior's  floating  plumage 

round ; 
Flushed  is  her  cheek,  inspired  her  haughty 

mien, 
She  seems  the  avenging  goddess  of  the 

scene. 

Are  those  her  infants,  that  with  suppliant  cry 
Cling  round  her,  shrinking  as  the  flame 

draws  nigh,  [vest, 

Clasp  with  their  feeble  hands  her  gorgeous 
And  fain  would  rush  for  shelter  to  her 

breast?  [dain, 

Is  that  a  mother's  glance,  where  stern  dis- 
And  passion,  awfully  vindictive,  reign  ? 

Fixed  is  her  eye  on  Asdrubal,  who  stands 
Ignobly  safe  amidst  the  conquering  bands ; 
On  him  who  left  her  to  that  burning  tomb, 
Alone  to  share  her  children's  martyrdom  ; 
Who,  when  his  country  perished,  fled  the 

strife, 
And  knelt  to  win  ;he  worthless  boon  of  life 


96 


SELIODOBUB  D?  THE  TEMPLE. 


"Live,  traitor,  live!''   she  cries,    "since 

dear  to  thee, 

E'en  in  thy  fetters,  can  existence  be  I 
Scorned    and    dishonoured     live  1 — with 
blasted  name,  [shame. 

The  Roman's  triumph  not  to  grace,  but 
O  slave  in  spirit !  bitter  be  thy  chain 
With  tenfold  anguish  to  avenge  my  pain  1 
Still  may  the  manes  of  thy  children  rise 
To  chase  calm  slumber  from  thy  wearied 

eyes; 

Still  may  their  voices  on  the  haunted  air 
In  fearful  whispers  tell  thee  to  despair, 
Till  vain  remorse  thy  withered  heart  con- 
sume, 

Scourged  by  relentless  shadows  of  the  tomb ! 
E'en  now  my  sons  shall  die — and  thou, 
their  sire. 


In  bondage  safe,  shall  yet  in  them  expnc. 
Think'st  thou  I   love  them  not?—  Twas 

thine  to  fly — 

'Tis  mine  with  these  to  suffer  and  to  die. 
Behold  their  fate  1— the  arms  that  cannot 

save  [grave." 

Have  been  their  cradle,  and  shall  be  their 

Bright  in  her  hand  the  lifted  dagger  gleams. 
Swift  from  her  children's  hearts  the  life- 
blood  streams ; 
With  frantic  laugh  she  clasps  them  to  the 

breast 
Whose  woes  and  passions  soon  shall  be  at 

rest; 

Lifts  one  appealing,  frenzied  glance  on  high, 
Then  deep  'midst  rolling  flames  is  lost  to 
mortal  eye. 


HELIODORUS   IN    THE   TEMPLE. 


tFrom  Maccabees,  book  ii,  chapter  3,  v.  ax.  "  Then  it  would  ^ve  pitied  a  man  to  see  the 
.  falling  down  of  the  multitude  of  all  sorts,  and  the  fear  of  the  high  priest,  being  in  such  an  agony. — 
22.  They  then  called  upon  the  Almighty  Lord  to  keep  the  things  committed  of  trust  safe  and  sure, 
for  those  that  had  committed  them.— 23.  Nevertheless  Heliodorus  executed  that  which  was  de- 
creed.— 24.  Now  as  he  was  there  present  himself,  with  his  guard  about  the  treasury,  the  Lord  ol 
Spirits,  and  the  Prince  of  all  Power,  caused  a  great  apparition,  so  that  all  that  presumed  to  come 
in  with  him  were  astonished  at  the  power  of  God,  and  fainted,  and  were  sore  afraid. — 25.  For 
there  appeared  unto  them  a  horse  with  a  terrible  rider  upon  him,  and  adorned  with  a  very  fail 
covering,  and  he  ran  fiercely,  and  smote  at  Heliodorus  with  his  fore  feet,  and  it  seemed  that  he 
that  sat  upon  the  horse  had  complete  harness  of  gold.— 26.  Moreover,  two  other  young  men  ap- 
peared before  him,  notable  in  strength,  excellent  in  beauty,  and  comely  in  apparel,  who  stood  by 
him  on  either  side,  and  scourged  him  continually,  and  gave  him  many  sore  stripes. — 27.  And 
Heliodorus  fell  suddenly  to  the  ground,  and  was  compassed  with  great  darkness  ;  but  they  that 
were  with  him  took  him  up,  and  put  him  into  a  litter. — 28.  Thus  him  that  lately  came  with  great 
train,  and  with  all  his  guard,  into  the  said  treasury,  they  carried  out,  being  unable  to  help  himsell 
with  his  weapons,  and  manifestly  the y  acknowledged  the  power  of  God. — 29.  For  he  by  the  hand 
of  God  was  cast  down,,  and  lay  speechless,  without  all  hope  of  life."] 


A  SOUND  of  woe  in  Salem  ! — mournful  cries 
Rose  from  her  dwellings — youthful  cheeks 

were  pale, 

Tears  flowing  fast  from  dim  and  aged  eyes, 
And  voices  mingling  in  tumultuous  wail ; 
Hards  raised  to  heaven  in  agony  of  prayer. 
And  powerless  wrath,  and  terror,  and  de- 
spair. 

Thy  daughters,  Judah  !  weeping,  laid  aside 

The  regal  splendour  of  their  fair  array, 

With  the  rude  sackcloth  girt  their  beauty's 

pride,  [wild  dismay ; 

And  thronged  the  streets  in  hurrying, 

While  knelt  thy  priests  before  His  awful 

shrine,  [thine. 

Who  made,  of  old,  renown  and  empire 


But  on  the  spoiler  moves— the  temple's  gate, 
The  bright,  the  beautiful,  his  guards  un- 
fold ; 

And  all  the  scene  reveals  its  solemn  state, 
Its  courts  and  pillars,  rich  with  sculp- 
tured gold ;  [abode, 
And  man,  with  eye  unhallowed,  views  the 
The  severed  spot,  the  dwelling-place  oi 
God. 

[yore 

Where  art  thou,  Mighty  Presence  1  that  of 

Wert  wont  between  the  cherubim  to  rest, 

Veiled  in  a  cloud  of  glory,  shadowing  o'er 

Thy  sanctuary  the  chosen  and  the  blest  ? 

Thou  I  that  didst  make  fair  Sion's  ark  thy 

throne. 
And  call  the  oracle's  recess  thm«  own  I 


NIGHT  SCENE  IN  GENOA 


Angtl  of  God  I  that  through  the  Assyrian 

host,  [night  hour, 

Clothed  with  the  darkness  of  the  mid- 

To  tame  the  proud,  to  hush  the  invader's 

boast,  [power, 

Didst    pass    triumphant    in    avenging 

Till  burst  the  day-spring  on  the  silent  scene, 

And  death  alone  revealed  where  thou  hadst 

been. 

Wilt  thou  not  wake,  O  Chastener  I  in  thy 

might, 

To  guard  thine  ancient  and  majestic  hill, 
Where  oft  from  heaven  the  full  Shechinah's 
light  [fill  I 

Hath  streamed  the  house  of  holiness  to 
Oh  1  yet  once  more  defend  thy  loved  do- 
main, 
Eternal  one  1  Deliverer  1  rise  again  I 

Fearless  of  thee,  the  plunderer,  undismayed, 
Hastes  on,  the  sacred  chambers  to  ex- 
plore [laid, 
Where  the  bright  treasures  of  the  fane  are 
The  orphan's  portion,  and  the  widow's 
store ;                             [coured  die, 
What  recks  his  heart  though  age  unsuc- 
And  want  consume  the  cheek  of  infancy  ? 

Away,  intruders  ! — hark  I  a  mighty  sound ! 

Behold,  a  burst  of  light  I — away,  away  I 
A  fearful  glory  fills  the  temple  round, 

A  vision  bright  in  terrible  array  1 
And  lo  I  a  steed  of  no  terrestrial  frame, 
His  path  a  whirlwind,  and  his  breath  a 
flame  I 

His  neck  is  clothed  with  thunder — and  his 

mane 

Seems  waving  frre — the  kindling  of  his  eye 
ts  as  a  meteor— ardent  with  disdain 
His  glance — his  gesture,  fierce  in  ma- 
jesty I  [to  bear 
Instinct  with  light  he  seems,  and  formed 
Some  dread  archangel  through  the  fields  of 
air. 


But  who  is  he,  in  panoply  of  gold, 
Throned  on  that  burning  charger  ?  bright 
his  form, 

Yet  in  its  brightness  awful  to  behold, 
And  girt  with  all  the  terrors  of  the  storm ! 

Lightning  is  on  his  helmet's  crest — and  feat 

Shrinks  from  the  splendour  of  his  brow 


And  by  his  side  two  radiant  warriors  stand 

All-armed,  and  kingly  in  commanding 

grace —  [grand ; 

Oh  !  more  than  kingly— godlike  1 — sternly 

Their  port  indignant,  and  each  dazzling 

face 

Beams  with  the  beauty  to  immortals  given, 
Magnificent  in  all  the  wrath  of  heaven. 

Then  sinks  each  gazer's  heart — each  knee 

is  bowed  [fight, 

In  trembling  awe — but,  as  to  fields  of 

The  unearthly  war-steed,  rushing  through 

the  crowd, 

Bursts  on  their  leader  in  terrific  might ; 
And  the  stem  angels  of  that  dread  abode 
Pursue  its  plunderer  with  the  scourge  of 
God. 

Darkness — thick  darkness  ! — low  on  earth 

he  lies, 

Rash  Heliodorus — motionless  and  pale — 
Bloodless  his  cheek,  and  o'er  his  shrouded 

eyes 

Mists,  as  of  death,  suspend  their  shadowy- 
veil  ;  [train, 
And  thus  the  oppressor,  by  his  fear -struck 
Is  borne  from  that  inviolable  fane. 

The  light  returns — the  warriors  of  the  sky 

Have  passed,   with  all    their   dreadful 

pomp,  away;  [high 

Then  wakes  the  timbrel,  swells  the  song  on 
Triumphant  as  in  Judah's  elder  day  ; 

Rejoice,  O  city  of  the  sacred  hill ; 

Salem,  exult  1  thy  God  is  with  thee  still. 


NIGHT-SCENE     IN     GENOA. 

FROM   SISMONDl'S    '    REPUBLIQUES   1TAUENNBS." 

f"  Lcs  consuls  de  1'annee  1169,  pour  retablir  la  paix  dans  leur  patrie,  au  milieu  des  factions 
soitrdes  a  leur  voix  et  plus  puissantes  qu'eux,  furent  obliges  d'ourdir  en  quelque  sorte  une  conspira- 
tion.  Ils  commencerent  par  s'assurer  secretement  des  dispositions  pacifiques  de  plusiers  des 
citoyens,  qul  cependant  etoient  entraines  dans  Its  e*meutes  par  leur  parente"  avec  les  chefs  dv 
f action ;  puis  sc  concertant  avcc  le  venerable  vieUlaru.  Hugues,  leur  arr.heveque,  ils  firent,  long- 


98 


NIGHT-SOENE  IN  GENOA. 


temps  arant  k  lever  du  soleil,  appeler  au  son  des  cloches  les  citoyens  a  I  parlcmect ;  Us  se  flat, 
toient  que  la  surprise  et  1'alarmc  de  cette  convocation  inattendue,  au  milieu  de  1'obscuritd  de  la 
ouit)  rendroit  1'assembMe  et  plus  complete  et  plus  docile.  Les  citoyens,  en  accourant  au  parlement 
'general,  virent,  au  milieu  de  la  place  publique,  Ic  vieil  arcb.evequc,  entoure'de  son  clerg^en  habit 
de  ceremonies,  et  portant  des  torches  allume'es,  tandis  que  les  reliques  de  Saint  Jean  Baptiste,  le 
protecteur  _de  Genes,  <?toient  expos£es  devant  lui,  et  que  les  citoyens  les  plus  respectables  portoiem 
a.  leurs  mains  des  crou-  suppliantes.  Des  que  I'assembldc-  fut  formee,  le  vieillara  se  leva,  et  de  sa 


de 

peu. 

consuls  et  de  la  nation. 


iland  Avogado,  le  chef 

.cclamations  de  tout  le 

se  conformer  au  vceu  des 


"  Roland,  &  leur  approche,  dechira  ses  habtu.  et,  s'assojuit  pai  terre  en  versant  des  larmes.' 
U  appela  i  haute  voix  les  morts  qu'il  avoit  jurd  dc  venger,  et  "qui  ne  lui  permettoient  pas  de  par 
donner  leurs  vieilles  offenses.  Comme  on  ne  peuvoit  le  determiner  Ji  a  avancer,  les  consuls  eux- 
jnemes,  I'archeyeque  et  Is  clerge1,  t'approcherent  de  lui,  et(  renouvelant  leurs  prieres,  ils  1'entraine- 
rent  enftn,  et  lui  firent  jurer  sur  r^vangile  1'oubli  de  see  Immitiis  passees. 

"  Les  chefs  du  parti  'contraire,  Foulques  de  Castro,  et  Ingo  de  Volta,  nVtoient  pas  pre>ens  ) 
1'asse.mblee,  mais  le  poupJe  ct  le  clerg^  se  porterent  en  foule  i  leurs  maisons ;  ils  lee  trouverenl 
ce'Ji  c'branMs  par  ce  qu'ils  venoient  d  apprcndre,  et,  profitant  de  leur  Emotion,  Us  leur  firent  jura 
une  reconciliation  sincere,  et  donner  le  baistr  de  paix  aux  chefs  de  la  faction  opposc'e.  Alors  leg 
cloch'es  do  la  ville  sonr.erent  en  t&noignage  d'aliegresse*  et  1'archeyeoue  de  retour  sur  la  place 
pub'ique  entonna  un  Te  Deuia  avcc  tout  le  pcuple,  en  honneur  du  Dieu  de  paix  qul  avoit  sauvl 
Ecur  pAtnt,"~-fiittoir;t  dtt  Rtftttliyutt  Italitnncit  vol.  U.  pp.  149, 150.] 


IN  Genoa,  when  the  sunset  gave 
Its  last  warm  purple  to  the  wavs, 
No  sound  of  war,  no  voice  of  fear, 
Was  heard,  announcing  danger  near  : 
Though  deadliest  foes  were  there  whose,  hate 
But  slumbered  till  its  hour  of  fate, 
Vet  calmly,  at  the  twilight's  closef 
Sunk  the  wide  city  to  repose. 

But  when  deep  midnight  reigned  around, 
All  sudden  woke  the  alarm-bell's  sound, 
Full  swelling,  while  the  hollow  breeze 
Bore  its  dread  summons  o'er  the  seas. 
Then,  Genoa,  from  their  slumber  started 
Thy  sons,  the  free,  the  fearless-hearted  ; 
Then  mingled  with  the  awakening  peal 
Voices,  and  steps,  and  clash  of  steel. 
Arm,  warriors,  arm  1  for  danger  calls, 
Arise  to  guard  your  native  walls  ! 
With  breathless  haste  the  gathering  throng 
Hurry  the  echoing  streets  along  ; 
Through  darkness  rushing  to  the  scene 
Where  their  bold  counsels  still  convene. 
— But  there  a  blaze  of  tbrches  bright 
Pours  its  red  radiance  on  the  night, 
O'er  fane,  and  dome,  and  column  playing, 
With  every  fitful  night-wind  swaying : 
Now  floating  o'er  each  tall  arcade, 
Around  the  pillared  scene  displayed,' 
In  light  relieved  by  depth  of  shade  : 
And  now  with  ruddy  meteor-glare, 
Full  streaming  on  the  silvery  hair 
And  the  bright  cross  of  him  who  stands 
'Rearing  that  sign  with  suppliant  bands, 


Girt  with  his  consecrated  train, 

The  hallowed  servants  of  the  fane. 

Of  life's  past  woes,  the  fading  trace 

Hath  given  that  aged  patriarch's  face 

Expression  holy,  deep,  resigned, 

The  calm  sublimity  of  mind. 

Years  o'er  his  snowy  head  have  passed, 

And  left  him  of  his  race  the  last ; 

Alone  on  earth — yet  still  his  mien 

Is  .bright  with  majesty  serene; 

And  those  high   hopes,  whose  guidtin 

star 

Shines  from  the  eternal  worlds  afar, 
Have  with  that  light  illumed  his  eye, 
vVhose  fount  is  immortality, 
And  o'er  his  features  poured  a  ray 
Of  glory,  not  to  pass  away. 
He  seems  a  being  who  hath  known 
Communion  with  his  God  alone. 
On  earth  by  nought  but  pity's  tie 
Detained  a  moment  from  on  high  ! 
One  to  sublimer  worlds  allied, 
One,  from  all  passion  purified, 
E'en  now  hah'  mingled  with  the  sky. 
And  all  prepared — oh  !  not  to  die — 
But,  like  the  prophet,  to  aspire, 
In  heaven's  triumphal  car  of  fire. 
He  speaks — and  from  the  throngs  aroutu. 
Is  heard  not  e'en  a  whispered  sound  ; 
.Awe-struck   each   heart,   and  fixed  eacb 

glance, 

They  stand  as  in  a  spell-bound  trance  : 
He  speaks — oh  1  who  can  hear  nor  own 
The  might  of  each  prevailing  tone? 


NIGHT-SCENE  IN  GENOA. 


"  Chieftains  and  warriors  I  ye,  so  long 
Aroused  to  strife  by  mutual  wrong, 
Whose  fierce  and  far-tfansmitted  hate 
Hath  made  your  country  desolate  ; 
Now  by  the  love  ye  bear  her  name, 
By  that  pure  spark  of  holy  flame 
On  freedom's  altar  brightly  burning, 
But,  once  extinguished,  ne'er  returning  ; 
By  all  your  hopes  of  bliss  to  come, 
When  burst  the  bondage  of  the  tomb  ; 
By  him,  the  God  who  bade  us  live 
To  aid  each  other,  and  forgive — 
I  call  upon  ye  to  resign 
Your  discords  at  your  country's  shrine, 
Each  ancient  feud  in  peace  atone, 
Wield  your  keen  sword  for  her  alone, 
And  swear,  upon  the  cross,  to  cast 
Oblivion's  mantle  o'er  the  past." 

No  voice  replies.    The  holy  bands 
Advance  to  where  yon  chieftain  stands, 
With  folded  arms,  and  brow  of  gloom 
O'ershadowed  by  bis  floating  plume. 
To  him  they  lift  the  cross— in  vain : 
He  turns— oh  1  say  not  with  disdain, 
But  with  a  mien  of  haughty  grief, 
That  seeks  not,  e'en  from  heaven,  relief. 
He  rends  his  robes — he  sternly  speaks—- 
Vet tears  are  on  the  warrior's  cheeks. 

"  Father  1  not  thus  the  wounds  may  close, 
Inflicted  by  eternal  foes. 
Deemest  thou  thy  mandate  can  efface 
The  dread  volcano's  burning  trace  ? 
Or  bid  the  earthquake's  ravaged  scene 
Be  smiling  as  it  once  hath  been  ? 
No  I  for  the  deeds  the  sword  hath  done 
Forgiveness  is  not  lightly  won  ; 
The  words  by  hatred  spoke  may  not 
Be  as  a  summer  breeze  forgot  1 
'Tis  vain — we  deem  the  war-feud's  rage 
A  portion  of  our  heritage. 
Leaders,  now  slumbering  with  their  fame, 
Bequeathed  us  that  undying  flame ; 
Hearts  that  have  long  been  still  and  cold 
Yet  rule  us  from  their  silent  mould  ; 
And  voices,  heard  on  earth  no  more, 
Speak  to  our  spirits  as  of  yore. 
Talk  not  of  mercy — blood  alone 
The  stain  of  bloodshed  may  atone ; 
Nought  else  can  pay  that  mighty  debt, 
The  dead  forbid  us  to  forget." 

He  pauses — from  the  patriarch's  brow 
There  beams  more  lofty  grandeur  now  • 
His  reverend  form,  bis  aged  hand 
Assume  a  gesture  of  commajid, 


His  voice  is  awful,  and  his  eye ' 
Filled  with  prophetic  majesty. 

"The  dead  1— and  deemcst  thou  they 

retain 

Aught  of  terrestrial  passion's  stain  ? 
Of  guilt  incurred  in  days  gone  by, 
Aught  but  the  fearful  penalty? 
And  sayest  thou,  mortal  1  blood  alone 
For  deeds  of  slaughter  may  atone  ? 
There  hath  been  blood — by  Him  'twas  shed 
To  expiate  every  crime  who  bled ; 
The  absolving  God  who  died  to  save, 
And  rose  in  victory-  from  the  grave  1 
And  by  that  stainless  offering  given 
Alike  for  all  on  earth  to  heaven ; 
By  that  inevitable  hour 
When  death  shall  vanquish  pride  and  power, 
And  each  departing  passion's  force 
Concentrate  all  in  late  remorse  ; 
And  by  the  day  when  doom  shall  be 
Passed  on  earth's  millions,  and  on  thee  - 
The  doom  that  shall  not  be  repealed, 
Once  uttered,  and  for  ever  sealed — 
I  summon  thee,  O  child  of  clay  1 
To  cast  thy  darker  thoughts  away, 
And  meet  thy  foes  in  peace  and  love. 
As  thou  wouldst  join  the  blest  above." 

Still  as  he  speaks,  unwonted  feeling 
Is  o'er  the  chieftain's  bosom  stealing ; 
Oh  !  not  in  vain  the  pleading  cries 
Of  anxious  thousands  round  him  rise ;  ' 
He  yields— devotion's  mingled  sense 
Of  faith  and  fear,  and  penitence. 
Pervading  all  his  soul,  he  bows 
To  offer  on  the  cross  his  vows, 
And  that  best  incense  to  the  skies, 
Each  evil  passion's  sacrifice. 

Then    tears    from  warriors'  eyes  were 

flowing, 

High  hearts  with  soft  emotions  glowing  ; 
Stern  foes  as  long-loved  brothers  greeting, 
And  ardent  throngs  in  transport  meeting ; 
And  eager  footsteps  forward  pressing, 
And  accents  loud  in  joyous  blessing  ; 
And  when  their  first  wild  tumults  cease. 
A  thousand  voices  echo  "  Peace  1 " 

Twilight's  dim  mist  bath  rolled  away, 
And  the  rich  Orient  burns  with  day  ; 
Then  as  to  greet  the  sunbeam's  birth, 
Rises  the  choral  hymn  of  earth — 
The  exulting  strain  through  Genoa  swelling 
Of  peace  and  holy  rapture  telling. 


100    THE  TEOUBALOUE  AND  EIC3AED  CCEUE  DE  LION. 


Far  float  the  sounds  o'er  vale  and  steep, 
The  seaman  hears  them  OH  the  deep, 
So  mellowed  by  the  gale,  they  seem 
As  the  wild  music  of  a  dream. 


But  not  on  mortal  ear  alone 
Peals  the  triumphant  anthem's  tone ; 
For  beings  of  a  purer  sphere 
Bend  with  celestial  joy  to  hear. 


THE  TROUBADOUR  AND  RICHARD  CGEUR  DE  LION. 

['  Not  only  the  place  of  Richard's  confinement"  (when  thrown  into  prison  by  tie  Duke  of 
Austria),  "  ii  we 'believe  the  literary  history  of  the  times,  but  even  the  circumstance  of  his  cap. 
tivity,  was  carefully  concealed  by  his  vindictive  enemies :  and  both  might  have  remained  unknown 
but  for  the  grateful  attachment  of  a  Provencal  bard,  or  minstrel,  named  Blondel,  who  had  shared 
that  prince's  friendship  and  tasted  his  bounty.  Having  travelled  over  all  the  European  continent 
to  learn  the  destiny  of  his  beloved  patrort,  Blondel  accidentally  got  intelligence  of  a  certain  castle 
in  Germany,  where  a  prisoner  of  distinction  was  confined,  and  guarded  with  great  vigilance. 
Persuaded  by  a  secret  impulse  that  this  prisoner  was  the  King  of  E  agland,  the  minstrel  repaired 
to  the  place  ;  but  the  gates  of  the  castle  were  shut  against  him,  and  lie  could  obtain  no  information 
relative  to  the  name  or  quality  ct  the  unhappy  person  it  secured.  In  this  extremity,  he  bethought 
himself  of  an  expedient  for  making  the  desired  discovery.  He  chanted,  with  a  loud  voice,  soma 
verses  of  d  song  which  had  been  composed  partly  by  himself,  partly  by  Richard;  and  to  his  un- 
speakable joy,  on  making  a  pause,  he  heard  it  re-echoed  and  continued  by  the  royal  captive.— 
(Hut.  Trmtaaovrs).  1  o  this  discovery  the  English  monarch  is  said  to  have  eventually  owed  his 
release.  — See  RUSSSL  s  Modern  Europe,  voL  i.  p.  369.] 


THE  Troubadour  o'er  many  a  plain 
Hath  roamed  unwearied,  but  in  vain. 
O'er  many  a  rugged  mountain-scene 
And  forest  wild  his  track  hath  been ; 
Beneath  Calabria's  glowing  sky 
He  hath  sung  the  songs  of  chivalry  ; 
His  voice  hath  swelled  on  the  Alpine  breeze, 
And  rung  through  the  snowy  Pyrenees  ; 
From  Ebro's  banks  to  Danube's  wave, 
He  hath  sought  his  prince,  the  loved,  the 

brave; 

And  yet,  if  still  on  earth  thou  art, 
Oh,  monarch  of  the  lion-heart ! 
The  faithful  spirit,  which  distress 
But  heightens  to  devotedhess, 
By  toil  and  trial  vanquished  not, 
Shall  guide  thy  minstrel  to  the  spot. 

He  hath  reached  a  mountain  hung  with 

vine, 

And  woods  that  wave  o'er  the  lovely  Rhine 
The  feudal  towers  that  crest  its  height 
Frown  in  unconquerable  might ; 
Dark  is  their  aspect  of  sullen  state — 
No  helmet  hangs  o'er  the  massy  gate* 
To  bid  the  wearied  pilgrim  rest, 
At  the  chieftain's  board  a  welcome  guest. 
Vainly  rich  evening's  parting  smile 
Would  chase  the  gloom  of  the  haughty  pile, 


*  A  custom  in  feudal  times,  as  a  token  that 
Mrangcrs  were  invited  to  enter  the  castle,  and 
partake  of  hospitality. 


That  'midst  bright  sunshine  lours  on -high, 
Like  a  thunder-cloud  in  a  summer  sky. 
Not  these  the  halls  where  a  child  of  song 
Awhile  may  speed  the  hours  along ; 
Their  echoes  should  repeat  alone 
The  tyrant's  mandate,  the  prisoner's  moan, 
Or  the  Wild  Huntsman's  bugle-blast, 
When  his  phantom  train  are  hurrying  past. 
— The  weary  minstrel  paused— his  eye 
Roved  o'er  the  scene  despondingly : 
Within  the  lengthening  shadow,  cast 
By  the  fortress  towers  and  ramparts  vast. 
Lingering  he  gazed.    The  rocks  around 
Sublime  in  savage  grandeur  frowned. 
Proud  guardians  of  the  regai  flood, 
In  giant  strength  the  mountains  stood — 
By  torrents  cleft,  by  tempests  riven, 
Yet  mingling  still  with  the  calm  blue  heaven. 
Their  peaks  were  bright  with  a  sunny  glow, 
But  the  Rhine  all  shadowy  rolled  below ; 
In  purple  tints  the  vineyards  smiled, 
But  the  woods  beyond  waved  dark  and  wild ; 
Nor  pastoral  pipe  nor  convent's  bell 
Was  neard  on  the  sighing  breeze  to  swell ; 
But  all  was  lonely,  silent,  rude, 
A  stem,  yet  glorious  solitude. 

But  hark  1  that  solemn  stillness  breaking, 
The  Troubadour's  wild  song  is  waking. 
Full  oft  that  song  in  days  gone  by 
Hath  cheered  the  sons  of  chivalry : 
It  hath  swelled  o'er  Judah's  mountains  lone, 
Hermon  I  thy  echoes  nave  learned  its  tone ; 


THE  TROUBADOUR  AND  RICHARD  OCEUR  DE  LION.   101 


On  the  Great  Plain*  its  notes  have  rung, 
The  leagued  Crusaders'  tents  among  ; 
'Twas  loved  by  the  Lion-heart,  who  won 
The  palm  in  the  field  of  Ascalon  ; 
And  now  afar  o'er  the  rocks  of  Rhine 
peals  the  bold  strain  of  Palestine. 

THE  TROUBADOUR'S  SONG. 

THINE  hour  is  come,  and  the  stake  is  set," 

The  Soldan  cried  to  the  captive  knight ; 

*'  And  the  sons  of  the  Prophet  in  throngs  are 

met 
To  gaze  on  the  fearful  sight. 

"  But  be  our  faith  by  thy  lips  professed, 

The  faith  of  Mecca's  shrine, 
Cast  down  the  red  cross  that  marks  thy  vest, 

And  life  shall  yet  be  thine." 
"  I  have  seen  the  flow  of  my  bosom's  blood, 

And  gazed  with  undaunted  eye : 
I  have  borne  the  bright  cross  through  fire 
and  flood, 

And  think'st  thou  I  fear  to  die? 

"  I  have'stood  where  thousands,  by  Salem's 

towers, 

Have  fallen  for  the  name  Divine  ; 
And  the  faith  that  cheered  their  closing 

hours 
Shall  be  the  light  of  mine." 

"  Thus  wilt  thou  die  in  the  pride  of  health, 
And  the  glow  of  youth's  fresh  bloom  ? 

Thou  art  offered  life,  and  pomp,  and  wealth, 
Or  torture  and  the  tomb." 

"  I  have  been  where  the  crown  of  thorns 
was  twined, 

For  a  dying  Saviour's  brow ; 
He  spurned  the  treasures  that  lure  mankind, 

And  I  reject  them  now  1" 

"  Art  thou  the  son  of  a  noble  line, 
In  a  land  that  is  fair  and  blest ; 

And  doth  not  thy  spirit,  proud  captive  1 

pine, 
Again  on  its  shores  to  rest  ? 


"  Thine  own  is  the  choice  to  hail  once  more 

The  soil  of  thy  father's  birth, 
Or  to  sleep,  when  thy  lingering  pangs  are 
o'er, 

Forgotten  in  foreign  earth." 

"  Oh  !  fair  are  the  vine-clad  hills  that  rise 

In  the  country  of  my  love  ; 
But  yet,  though  cloudless  my  native  skies, 

There's  a  brighter  clime  above  1" 

The  bard  hath  paused — for  another  tone 
Blends  with  the  music  of  his  own  ; 
And  his  heart  beats  high  with  hope  again, 
As  a  well-known  voice  prolongs  the  strain. 

"ARE  there  none  within  thy  father's  hall, 

Far  o'er  the  wide  blue  main, 
Young  Christian  1  left  to  deplore  thy  fall, 

With  sorrow  deep  and  vain  ?" 

"There  are  hearts  that  still,  through  all  the 

Unchanging  have  loved  me  well ; 
There  are  eyes  whose  tears  were  streaming 

fast 
When  I  bade  my  home  farewell. 

"  Better  they  wept  o'er  the  warrior's  bier 
Than  the  apostate's  living  stain  ; 

There's  a  land  where  those  who  loved  when 

here 
Shall  meet  to  love  again." 

Tis  he  I  thy  prince — long  sought,  long 

lost, 

The  leader  of  the  red-cross  host  I 
'Tis  he  1— to  none  thy  joy  betray, 
Young  Troubadour  1  away,  away ! 
Away  to  the  island  of  the  brave, 
The  gem  on  the  bosom  of  the  wave  : 
Arouse  the  sons  of  the  noble  soil 
To  win  their  Lion  from  the  toil. 
And  free  the  wassail-cup  shall  flow, 
Bright  in  each  hall  the  hearth  shall  glow  ; 
The  festal  board  shall  be  richly  crowned, 
While  knights  and  chieftains  revel  round. 
And  a  thousand  harps  with  joy  shall  ring, 
1  When  merry  England  hails  her  King. 


102 


THE  DEATH  OF  CONRADIN. 

C"  La  sentence  de  mort  fut  communiquee  a  Conradin  comme  il  jouait  aux  tehees ;  on  lui  laissa 
peu  de  temps  pour  se  preparer  a  son  execution  ;  et  le  26  d'Octobre*jl  fut  conduit,  avec  tous  ses 
amis,  sur  la  Place  du  Marche1  de  Naples,  le  long  du  rivage  de  la  mer.  Charles  etait  present,  avec 
toute  sa  cour,  et  un  foule  immense  entourait  le  roi  vainqueur  et  le  roi  condamne.  Conradin  etait 
entre  les  mains  des  bourreaux  ;  il  detacha  lui-meme  son  manteau,  et  s'ttant  mis  a  genoux  pour 
prior,  il  se  releva  en  s'e"criant :  '  O  ma  mere  !  quelle  profonde  douleur  te  causera  la  nouvelle  qu'oa 
va  te  porter  de  moi !'  Puis  il  tourna  les  yeux  sur  la  foule  qui  1'entourait ;  il  vit  les  larmes,  il 
entendit  les  sanglots  de  sou  peuple ;  alors,  detachant  son  gant,  il  jeta  au  milieu  de  ses  sujets  ce 
gage  d'un  combat  de  vengeance,  et  rendit  sa  tete  au  bourreau." — SISMONDI.] 


No  cloud  to  dim  the  splendour  of  the  day 
Which  breaks  o'er  Naples  and  her  lovely 

bay,  [shore 

And  lights  that  brilliant  sea  and  magic 
With  every  tint  that  charmed  the  great  of 

yore —  [bade 

The  imperial  ones  of  earth,  who  proudly 
Their  marble  domes  even  ocean's  realm 

invade. 

That  race  is  gone,  but  glorious  Nature  here 
Maintains  unchanged  her   own   sublime 

career, 

And  bids  these  regions  of  the  sun  display 
Bright  hues,  surviving  empires  passed  away. 
The  beam  of  heaven  expands — its  kindling 

smile 

Reveals  each  charm  of  many  a  fairy  isle, 
Whose  image  floats,  in  softer  colouring 

dressed, 
With  all  its  rocks  and  vines,  on  ocean's 

breast. 

Misenum's  cape  hath  caught  the  vivid  ray, 
On  Roman  streamers  there  no  more  to  play; 
Still,  as  of  old,  unalterably  bright, 
Lovely  it  sleeps  on  Posilippo's  height, 
With  all  Italia's  sunshine  to  illume 
The  ilex  canopy  of  Virgil's  tomb. 
Campania's  plains  rejoice  in  light,  and 

spread 

Their  gay  luxuriance  o'er  the  mighty  dead ; 
Fair  glittering  to  thine  own  transparent 

skies, 

Thy  palaces,  exulting  Naples  1  rise  ; 
While  far  on  high  Vesuvius  rears  his  peak, 
Furrowed  and  dark  with  many  a  lava  streak. 

O  ye  bright  shores  of  Circe  and  the  Muse ! 
Rich  with  all  nature's  and  all  fiction's  hues, 
Who  shall  explore  your  regions,  and  declare 
The  poet*  erred  to  paint  Elysium  there  ? 
Call  up  his  spirit,  wanderer  1  bid  him  guide 
Thy  steps  those  syren-haunted  seas  beside ; 


Virgil. 


And  all  the  scene  a  lovelier  light  shall  wear, 
And  spells  more  potent  shall  pervade  the 
air.  [urn 

What  though  his  dust  be  scattered,  and  his 
Long  from  its  sanctuary  of  slumber  torn, 
Still  dwell  the  beings  of  his  verse  around, 
Hovering  in  beauty  o'er  the   enchanted 
ground ;  [roves 

His  lays  are  murmured  in  each  breeze  that 
Soft  o'er  the  sunny  waves  and  orange- 
groves  ;  [and  sea, 
His  memory's  charm  is  spread  o'er  shore 
The  soul,  the  genius  of  Parthenope ; 
Shedding  o'er  myrtle  shade  and  vine-clad 

hill 
The  purple  radiance  of  Elysium  still. 

Yet  that  fair  soil  and  calm  resplendent  sky 
Have  witnessed  many  a  dark  reality. 
Oft  o'er  those  bright  blue  seas  the  gale  hath 

borne 

The  sighs  of  exiles  never  to  return. 
There  with  the  whisper  of  Campania's  gale 
Hath  mingled  oft  Affection's  funeral  wail, 
Mourning  for  buried  heroes — while  to  her 
That  glowing  land  was  but  their  sepulchre. 
And  there,  of  old,  the  dread  mysterious 

moan  [tone ; 

Swelled  from  strange  voices  of  no  mortal 
And  that  wild  trumpet,  whose  unearthly 

note 

Was  heard  at  midnight  o'er  the  hills  to  float 
Around  the  spot  where  Agrippina  died, 
Denouncing  vengeance  on  the  Matricide. 

Passed  are  those  ages — yet  another  crime, 
Another  woe,  must  stain  the  Elysian  clime. 
There  slands  a  scaffold  on  the  sunny 

shore — 

It  must  be  crimsoned  ere  the  day  is  o'er  1 
There  is  a  throne  in  regal  pomp  arrayed — 
A  scene  of  death  from  thence  must  be  sur- 
veyed, [mien  is  pale, 
Marked  ye  the  rushing  throngs?  Each 
Each  hurried  glance  reveals  a  fearful  tale ; 


TEE  DEATH  OF  CONRADItf 


103 


But  the  deep  workings  of  the  indignant 

breast, 

Wrath,  hatred,  pity,  must  be  all  suppressed ; 
The  burning  tears  awhile  must  check  its 

course, 
The  avenging  thought  .concentrate  all  its 

force ; 

For  tyranny  is  near,  and  will  not  brook 
Aught  but  submission  in  each  guarded  look. 

Girt  with  his  fierce  Provencals,  and  with 

mien 

Austere  in  triumph,  gazing  on  the  scene  ; 
And  in  his  eye  a  keen  suspicious  glance 
Of  jealous  pride  and  restless  vigilance, 
Behold  the  conqueror  I  Vainly  in  his  face 
Of  gentler  feeling  hope  would  seek  a  trace. 
Cold,  proud,  severe,  the  spirit  which  hath 

lent 

Its  haughty  stamp  to  each  dark  lineament : 
And  pleading  Mercy,  in  the  sternness  there, 
May  read  at  once  her  sentence — to  despair  ! 

But  thou,fair  boy  I  the  beautiful,  the  brave, 
Thus  passing  from  the  dungeon  to  the  grave, 
While  all  is  yet  around  thee  which  can  give 
A  charm  to  earth,  and  make  it  bliss  to  live ; 
Thou  on  whose  form  hath  dwelt  a  mother's 

eye,  [die 

Till  the  deep  love  that  not  with  thee  shall 
Hath  grown  too  full  for  utterance — can  it  bel 
And  is  this  pomp  of  death  prepared  for  thee, 
Voung,  royal  Conradin  1  who  shouldst  have 

known 

Of  life  as  yet  the  sunny  smile  alone  ! 
Oh  !  who  can  view  thee,  in  the  pride  and 

bloom 

Of  youth,  arrayed  so  richly  for  the  tomb, 
Nor  feel,  deep  swelling  in  his  inmost  soul, 
Emotions  tyranny  may  ne'er  control  ? 
Bright  victim  !  to  Ambition's  altar  led, 
Crowned  with  all  flowers  that  heaven  on 

earth  can  shed. 
Who;  from  the  oppressor  towering  in  his 

pride, 

May  hope  for  mercy — if  to  thee  denied  ? 
There  is  dead  silence  on  the  breathless 

throng, 

Dead  silence  all  the  peopled  shore  along, 
As  on  the  captive  moves — the  only  sound, 
To  break  that  calm  so  fearfully  profound, 
The  low  sweet  murmur  of  the  rippling  wave, 
Soft  as  it  glides  the  smiling  shore  to  lave ; 
While  on  that  shore,  his  own  fair  heritage, 
The  youthful  martyr  to  a  tyrant's  rage 
Is  passing  to  his  fate.    The  eyes  are  dim 
Which  gaze,  through  tears  that  dare  not 

flow,  on  him. 


He  mounts  the  scaffold — doth  his  footstep 
fail?  [pale? 

Doth  his  lip  quiver?  doth  his  cheek  turn 
Oh  1  it  may  be  forgiven  him  if  a  thought 
Cling  to  that  world,  for  him  with  beauty 

fraught — 

To  all  the  hopes  that  promised  glory's  meed, 
And  all  the  affections  that  with  him  shall 
bleed !  [rose 

If,  in  his  life's  young  dayspring,  while  the 
Of  boyhood  on  his  cheek  yet  freshly  glows, 
One  human  fear  convulse  his  parting  breath, 
And  shrink  from  all  the  bitterness  of  death  I 

But  no  I  the  spirit  of  his  royal  race 
Sits  brightly  on  his  brow  :  that  youthful  face 
Beams  with  heroic  beauty,  and  his  eye 
Is  eloquent  with  injured  majesty. 
He  kneels — but  not  to  man  ;  his  heart  shall 

own 

Such  deep  submission  to  his  God  alone  ! 
And  who  can  tell  with  what  sustaining  power 
That  God  may  visit  him  in  fate's  dread  hour? 
How  the  still  voice,  which  answers  every 

moan, 
May  speak  of  hope — when  hope  on  earth 

is  gone  1 

That  solemn  pause  is  o'er.    The  youth 

hath  given 
One  glance  of  parting  love  to  earth  and 

heaven. 

The  sun  rejoices  in  the  unclouded  sky, 
Life  all  around  him  glows — and  he  must  die! 
Yet  'midst  his  people, undismayed, he  throws 
The  gage  of  vengeance  for  a  thousand  woes; 
Vengeance  that,  like  their  own  volcano's  fire, 
May  sleep  suppressed  awhile  —  but  not 

expire. 

One  softer  image  rises  o'er  his  breast, 
One  fond  regret,  and  all  shall  be  at  rest ! 
"Alas,  for^thee,  my  mother  I  who  shall  bear 
To  thy  sad  heart  the  tidings  of  despair, 
When  thy  lost  child  is  gone  I"  That  thought 

can  thrill 
His  soul  with  pangs  one  moment  more  shall 

still. 

The  lifted  axe  is  glittering  in  the  sun — 
It  falls — the  race  of  Conradin  is  run  I 
Yet,  from  the  blood  which  flows  that  shore 

to  stain, 

A  voice  shall  cry  to  heaven — and  not  in  vain! 
Gaze  thou,  triumphant  from  thy  gorgeous 

throne, 

In  proud  supremacy  of  guilt  alone, 
Charles  of  Anjoul— but  that  dread  voice 

shall  be 
A  fearful  summoner  even  yet  to  thee  I 


104 


WALLACE'S  INVOCATION  TO  BRVCE. 


The  scene  of  death  is  closed — the  throngs 
depart, 

A  deep  stem  lesson  graved  on  every  heart. 

No  pomp,  no  funeral  rites,  no  streaming  eyes, . 

High-minded  boy  1  may  grace  thine  obse- 
quies. 

O  vainly  royal  and  beloved !  thy  grave, 

Unsanctified,  is  bathed  by  ocean's  wave  ; 

Marked  by  no  stone,  a  rude,  neglected  spot, 

Unhonoured,  unadorned — but  unforgot; 

For  thy  deep  wrongs  in  tameless  hearts 
shall  live, 

Now  mutely  suffering — never  to  forgive ! 

The  sunset  fades  from  purple  heavens 

away — 

A  bark  hath  anchored  in  the  unruffled  bay : 
Thence  on  the  beach  descends  a  female  form, 
Her  mien  with  hope  and  tearful  transport 
warm ; 


But  life  hath  left  sad  traces  on  her  cheek. 
And  her  soft  eyesachastened  heart  bespeak, 
Inured  to  woes — yet  what  were  all  the  past  2 
She  sank  not  feebly  'neath  affliction's  blast, 
While  one  bright  hope  remained :  who  now 

shall  tell 
The  uncrowned,  the  widowed.how  her  loved 

one  fell  ? 

To  clasp  her  child,  to  ransom  and  to  save, 
The  mother  came — and  she  hath  found  his 

grave ! 
And  by  that  grave,  transfixed  in  speechless 

grief, 

Whose  deathlike  trance  denies  a  tear's  relief, 
Awhile  she  kneels — till  roused  at  length  to 

know, 

To  feel  the  might,  the  fulness  of  her  woe, 
On  the  still  air  a  voice  of  anguish  wild, 
A  mother's  cry  is  heard — "  My  Conradir 

my  child  I" 


WALLACE'S  INVOCATION  TO  BRUCE. 

A  PRIZE  POEM. 
"  Great  patriot  hero  !  ill-requited  chief !" 


THE  morn  rose  bright  on  scenes  renowned, 
Wild  Caledonia's  classic  ground, 
Where  the  bold  sons  of  other  days 
Won  their  high  fame  in  Ossian's  lays, 
And  fell — but  not  till  Carron's  tide 
With"  Roman  blood  was  darkly  dyed. 
The  morn  rose  bright — and  heard  the  cry 
Sent  by  exulting  hosts  on  high, 
And  saw  the  white-cross  banner  float, 
(While  rung  each  clansman's  gathering 

note) 

O'er  the  dark  plumes  and  serried  spears 
Of  Scotland's  daring  Mountaineers  ; 
As  all  elate  with  hope,  they  stood 
To  buy  their  freedom  with  their  blood. . 

The  sunset  shone — to  guide  the  flying, 
And  beam  a  farewell  to  the  dying  I 
The  summer  moon,  on  Falkirk's  field, 
Streams  upon  eyes  in  slumber  sealed ; 
Deep  slumber — not  to  pass  away 
When  breaks  another  morning's  ray, 
Nor  vanish,  when  the  trumpet's  voice 
Bids  ardent  hearts  again  rejoice : 
Whatsunbeam'sglow.whatclarion'sbieath, 
May  chase  the  still  cold  sleep  of  death  ? 


SKroud'Hiin  Scotland's  blood-stained  plaid, 
Low  a*-*  her  mountain-warriors  laid , 
They  fefl  on  that  proud  soil,  .whose  mould 
Was  blent  with  heroes'  dust  of  old, 
And,  guarded  by  the  free  and  brave, 
Yielded  the  Roman — but  a  grave  I 
Nobly  they  fell — yet  with  them  died 
The  warrior's  hope,  the  leader's  pride. 
Vainly  they  fell — that  martyr-host — 
All,  save  the  land's  high  soul,  is  lost. 
Blest  are  the  slain  !  they  calmly  sleep, 
N.or  hear  their  bleeding  country  weep  ; 
The  shouts  of  England's  triumph  telling, 
Reach  not  their  dark  and  silent  dwelling ; 
And  those,  surviving  to  bequeath 
Their  sons  the  choice  of  chains  or  death, 
May  give  the  slumberer's  lowly  bier 
An  envying  glance — but  not  a  tear. 

But  thou,  the  fearless  and  the  free, 
Devoted  Knight  of  Ellerslie ! 
No  vassal-spirit,  formed  to  bow 
When  storms  are  gathering,  clouds  thy 

brow, 

No  shade  of  fear,  or  weak  despair, 
Blends  with  indignant  sorrow  there  1 


WALLACE'S  INVOCATION  TO  BRUCE. 


105 


The  ray  which  streams  on  yoa  red  field, 
O'er  Scotland's  cloven  helm  and  shield, 
Glitters  not  there  alone,  to  shed 
Its  cloudless  beauty  o'er  the  dead  ; 
But,  where  smooth  Carron's  rippling  wave, 
Flows  near  that  death-bed  of  the  brave, 
Illuming  all  the  midnight  scene, 
Sleeps  brightly  on  thy  lofty  mien. 
But  other  beams,  O  Patriot !  shine 
In  each  commanding  glance  of  thine,1 
And  other  light  hath  filled  thine  eye, 
With  inspiration's  majesty, 
Caught  from  th'  immortal  flame  divine, 
Which  makes  thine  inmost  heart  a  shrine  I 
Thy  voice  a  prophet's  tone  hath  won, 
The  grandeur  Freedom  lends  her  son ; 
Thy  bearing,  a  resistless  power, 
The  ruling  genius  of  the  hour ; 
And  he,  yon  Chief,  with  mien  of  pride, 
Whom  Carron's  waves  from  thee  divide, 
Whose  haughty  gesture  fain  would  seek 
To  veil  the  thoughts  that  blanch  his  cheek, 
Feels  his  reluctant  mind  controlled 
By  thine  of  more  heroic  mould : 
Though,  'struggling  all  in  vain  to  war 
With  that  high  mind's  ascendant  star, 
He,  with  a  conqueror's  scornful  eye, 
Would  mock  the  name  of  Liberty. 

Heard  ye  the  Patriot's  awful  voice?— 
"  Proud  Victor !  in  thy  fame  rejoice  ! 
Hast  thou  not  seen  thy  brethren  slain, 
The  harvest  of  thy  battle-plain, 
And  bathed  thy  sword  in  blood,    whose 

spot 

Eternity  shall  cancel  not  ? 
Rejoice  1 — with  sounds  of  wild  lament, 
O'er  her  dark  heaths  and  mountains  sent, 
With  dying  moan,  and  dirge's  wail, 
Thy  ravaged  country  bids  thee  hail  I 
Rejoice  I — while  yet  exulting  cries, 
From  England's  conquering  host  arise\ 
And  strains  of  choral  triumph  tell, 
Her  Royal  Slave  hajth  fought  too  well  I 
Oh  1  dark  the  clouds  of  woe  that  rest 
Brooding  o'er  Scotland's  mountain-crest ! 
Her  shield  is  cleft,  her  banner  torn, 
O'er  martyred  chiefs  her  daughters  mourn, 
And  not  a  breeze,  but  wafts  the  Sound 
Of  wailing  through  the  land  around. 
Yet  deem  not  thou,  till  life  depart, 
High  hope  shall  leave  the  Patriot's  heart, 
Or  courage  to  the  storm  inured, 
Or  stern  resolve,  by  woes  matured, 
Oppose,  to  Fate's  severest  hour, 
Less  than  unconquerable  power  I 
No !  though  the  orbs  of  heaven  expire, 
Thine,  Freedom  I  is  a  quenchless  fire, 


And  woe  to  him  whose  might  would  dare, 
The  energies  of  thy  despair  I 
No  1 — when  thy  chain,  O  Bruce !  is  cast 
O'er  thy  land's  chartered  mountain-blast, 
Then  in  my  yielding  soul  shall  die 
The  glorious  faith  of  Liberty  I" 

"  Wild  hopes  I  o'er  dreamer's  mind  thai 

rise  1" 

With  haughty  laugh  the  Conqueror  cries, 
(Yet  his  dark  cheek  is  flushed  with  shame, 
And  his  eye  filled  with  troubled  flame  ;) 
"  Vain,  brief  illusions  1  doomed  to  fly 
England's  red  path  of  victory  1 
Is  not  her  sword  unmatched  in  might  ? 
Her  course,  a  torrent  in  the  fight  ? 
The  terror  of  her  name  gone  forth 
Wide  o'er  the  regions  of  the  north  ? 
Far  hence,  'midst  other  heaths  and  snows, 
Must  Freedom's  footstep  now  repose. 
And  thou — in  lofty  dreams  elate, 
Enthusiast  1  strive  no  more  with  Fate  I 
'Tjs  vain — the  land  is  lost  and  won — . 
Sheathed  be  the  sword — its  task  is  done. 
Where  are  the  chiefs  that  stood  with  thee 
First  in  the  battles  of  the  free  ? 
The  firm  in  heart,  in  spirit  high  ? 
They  sought  yon  fatal  field  to  die. 
Each  step  of  Edward's  conquering  host 
Hath  left  a  grave  on  Scotland's  coast." 

"  Vassal  of  England,  yes !  a  grave 
Where  sleep  the  faithful  and  the  brave, 
And  who  the  glory  would  resign, 
Of  death  like  theirs,  for  life  like  thine  ? 
They  slumber — and  the  stranger's  tread, 
May  spurn  thy  country's  noble  dead ; 
Yet,  on  the  land  they  loved  so  well, 
Still  shall  their  burning  spirit  dwell, 
Their  deeds  shall  hallow  Minstrel's  theme, 
Their  image  rise  on  warrior's  dream, 
Their  names  be  inspiration's  breath, 
Kindling  high  hope  and  scorn  of  death, 
Till  bursts,  immortal  from  the  tomb, 
The  flame  that  shall  avenge  their  doom  I 
This  is  no  land  for  chains — away  1' 
O'er  softer  climes  let  tyrants  sway ! 
Think'st  thou  the  mountain  and  the  storm 
Their  hardy  sons  for  bondage  form  ? 
Doth  our  stem  wintry  blast  instil 
Submission  to  a  despot's  will  ? 
No  1  we  were  cast  in  other  mould 
Than  theirs  by  lawless  power  controlled  ; 
The  nurture  of  our  bitter  sky 
Calls  forth  resisting  energy ; 
And  the  wild  fastnesses  are  ours, 
The  rocks,  with  their  eternal  towers  i 


106 


WALLACE'S  INVOCATION  TO  BRUCE. 


The  soul  to  struggle  and  to  dare, 

Is  mingled  with  our  northern  air, 

And  dust  beneath  our  soil  is  lying 

Of  those  who  died  for  fame  undying. 

Tread'st  thou  that  soil !  and  can  it  be, 

No  loftier  tHought  is  roused  in  thee  ? 

Doth  no  high  feeling  proudly  start 

From  slumber  in  thine  inmost  heart? 

No  secret  voice  thy  bosom  thrill, 

For  thine  own  Scotland  pleading  still? 

Oh  I  wake  thee  yet — indignant  daiia 

A  nobler  fate,  a  purer  fame, 

And  cast  to  earth  thy  fetters  riven, 

And  take  thine  offered  crown  from  heaven ! 

Wake  I  in  that  high  majestic  lot, 

May  the  dark  past  be  aU  forgot, 

And  Scotland  shall  forgive  the  field, 

Where  with  her  blood  thy  shame  was 

sealed. 

E'en  I — though  on  that  fatal  plain 
Lies  my  heart's  brother  with  the  slain, 
Though  reft  of  his  heroic  worth, 
My  spirit  dwdls  alone  on  earth  ; 
And  when  all  other  grief  is  past, 
Must  this  be  cherished  to  the  last — 
Will  lead  thy  battles,  guard  thy  throne, 
With  faith  unspotted  as  his  own, 
Nor  in  thy  noon  of  fame  recall, 
Whose  was   the  guilt. that  wrought    his 

fall." 

Still  dost  thou  hear  in  stern  disdain? 
Are  Freedom's  warning  accents  vain  ? 
No  !  royal  Bruce  1  within  thy  breast 
Wakes  each  high  thought,  too  long  sup- 
pressed. 

And  thy  heart's  noblest  feelings  live, 
Blent  in  that  suppliant  word — "  Forgive !" 
"  Forgive  the  wrongs  to  Scotland  done ! 
Wallace !  thy  fairest  palm  is  won, 
And,  kindling  at  my  country's  shrine, 
My  soul  hath  caught  a  spark  from  thine, 
Oh !  deem  not  in  the  proudest  hour 
Of  triumph  and  exulting  power — 
Deem  not  the  light  of  peace  could  find 
A  home  within  my  troubled  mind. 
Conflicts,  by  mortal  eye  unseen, 
Dark,  silent,  secret,  there  have  been, 
Known  but  to  Him,   whose  glance  can 

trace 

Thought  to  its  deepest  dwelling-place  I 
— 'Tis  past — and  on  my  native  shore 
I  tread,  a  rebel  son  no  more. 
Too  blest,  if  yet  my  lot  may  be, 
In  glory's  path  to  follow  thee  ; 
If  tears,  by  late  repentance  poured, 
May    lave    the    blood-stains    from     my 
sword  1" 


Far  other  tears,  O  Wallace !  rise 
From  the  heart's  fountain  to  thine  eyes, 
Bright,  holy,  and  unchecked  they  spring, 
While  thy  voice  falters,  "Hail  I  my  King 
Be  every  wrong,  by  memory  traced, 
In  this  full  tide  of  joy  effaced  ! 
Hail  1  and  rejoice  I — thy  race  shall  claim 
A  heritage  of  deathless  fame, 
And  Scotland  shall  arise,  at  length, 
Majestic  in  triumphant  strength, 
An  eagle  of  the  rock,  that  won 
A  way  through  tempests  to  the  sun  I 
Nor  scorn  the  visions,  wildly  grand. 
The  prophet-spirit  of  thy  land  I 
By  torrent-wave,  in  desert  vast, 
Those  visions  o'er  my  thought  have  passed, 
Where  mountain-vapours  darkly  roll, 
That  spirit  hath  possessed  my  soul  1 
And  shadowy  forms  have  met  mine  eye, 
The  beings  of  futurity  I 
And  a  deep  voice  of  years  to  be, 
Hath  told  that  Scotland  shall  be  free ! 
He  comes  1  exult,  thou  Sire  of  Kings ! 
From  thee  the  chief,  th'  avenger  springs ! 
Far  o'er  the  land  he  comes  to  save 
His  banners  m  their  glory  wave, 
And  Albyn's  thousand  harps  awake 
On  hill  and  heath,  by  stream  and  lake, 
To  swell  the  strains,  that  far  around 
Bid  the  proud  name  of  Bruce  resound : 
And  I — but  wherefore  now  recall 
The  whispered  omens  of  my  fall  ? 
They  come  not  in  mysterious  gloom, 
— There  is  no  bondage  in  the  tomb  1 
O'er  the  soul's  world  no  tyrant  reigns, 
And  earth  alone  for  man  hath  chains  1 
What  though  I  perish  ere  the  hour 
When  Scotland's  vengeance  wakesin  pcwer, 
If  shed  for  her,  my  blood  shall  stain 
The  field  or  scaffold  not  in  vain. 
Its  voice,  to  efforts  more  sublime, 
Shall  rouse  the  spirit  of  her  clime, 
And  in  the  noontide  of  her  lot, 
My  country  shall  forget  me  not  I" 


Art  thou  forgot?  and  hath  thy  worth 
Without  its  glory  passed  from  earth  ? 
— Rest  with  the  brave,  whose  names  belong 
To  the  high  sanctity  of  song ! 
Chartered  our  reverence  to  control, 
And  traced  in  sunbeams  on  the  soul ! 
Thine,  Wallace  I  while  the  heart  has  still 
One  pulse  a  generous  thought  can  thrill, 
While  youth's  warm  tears  are  yet  the  meed 
Of  martyr's  death,  or  hero's  deed, 
Shall  brightly  live,  from  age  to  age, 
Thy  country's  proudest  heritage  J 


THE  SCEPTIC. 


107 


"Midst  her  green  vales  thy  fame  is  dwelling, 
Thy  deeds  her  mountain-winds  are  telling, 
Thy  memory  speaks  in  torrent-wave, 
Thy  step  hath  hallowed  rock  and  cave, 
And  cold  the  wanderer's  heart  must  be, 
That  holds  no  converse  there  with  thee  I 

Yet,  Scotland  !  to  thy  champion's  shade 
Sfill  are  thy  grateful  rites  delayed  ; 
From  lands  of  old  renown,  o'erspread 
With  proud  memorials  of  the  dead, 
The  trophied  urn,  the  breathing  bust, 
The  pillar,  guarding  noble  dust, 
The  shrine  where  heart  and  genius  high 
Have  laboured  for  eternity ; 
The  stranger  comes — his  eye  explores 
The  wilds  of  thy  majestic  shores, 


Yet  vainly  seeks  one  votive  stone 
Raised  to  the  hero  all  thine  own. 

Land  of  bright  deeds  and  minstrel-lore  1 
Withhold  that  guerdon  now  no  more. 
On  some  bold  height,  of  awful  form, 
Stern  eyrie  of  the  cloud  and  storm, 
Sublimely  mingling  with  the  skies, 
Bid  the  proud  Cenotaph  arise  I 
Not  to  record  the  name  that  thrills 
Thy  soul,  the  watchword  of  thy  hills, 
Not  to  assert,  with  needless  claim, 
The  bright  yfcr  ever  of  its  fame ; 
But,  in  the  ages  yet  untold, 
When  ours  shall  be  the  days  of  old, 
To  rouse  high  hearts,  and  speak  thy  pride 
In  him,  for  thee  who  lived  and  died. 


I82O. 

THE  SCEPTIC. 

["  I*ur  ralson,  qu'ils  prennent  pour  guide,  ne  presente  &  leur  esprit  que  des  conjectures  et  d«s 
embarras  ;  les  absurdites  ou  ils  tombent  en  niant  la  Religion  deviennent  plus  insoutenables  que  les 
verites  dont  la  hauteur  les  etonne  ;  et  pour  ne  vouloir  pas  croire  des  mysteres  incomprehensibles, 
Us  suivent  1'une  apres  1'autre  d'incompreTiensibles  erreurs." — BOSSUKT,  Oraisontfunibrit.] 


WHEN  the  young  Eagie,  with  exulting  eye, 
Has  learned  to  dare  the  splendour  of  the 

sky, 

And  leave  the  Alps  beneath  him  in  his 
course,  [source ; 

To  bathe  his  crest  in  morn's  empyreal 
Will  his    free  wing,  from    that    majestic 
height,  [light, 

Descend    to   follow  some  wild    meteor's 
Which  far  below,  with  evanescent  fire, 
Shines  to  delude,  and  dazzles  to  expire  ? 
No  1  still  through  clouds  he  wins  his  up- 
ward way, 

And  proudly  claims  his  heritage  of  day  1 
— And  shall  the  spirit,  on  whose  ardent  gaze 
The  day-spring  from  on  high  hath  poured 

its  blaze, 

•Turn  from  that  pure  effulgence  to  the  beam 
Of  earth-born  light,  that  sheds  a  treache- 
rous gleam, 

Luring  the  wanderer,  from  the  star  of  faith, 
To  the  deep  valley  of  the  shades  of  death  ? 
What  bright  exchange,  what  treasure  shall 
be  given,  [Heaven  ? 

For  the  high  birth-right  of  its  hope  in 
If  lost  the  gem  which  empires  could  not 

buy, 
What  yet  remains  ? — a  dark  eternity  1 


Is  -;arth  still  Eden  ? — might  a  Seraph 

guest, 
Still,   'midst  its    chosen  bowers  delighted 

rest? 

Is  all  so  cloudless  and  so  calm  below, 
We  seek  no  fairer  scenes  than  life  can  show? 
That  the  cold  Sceptic,  in  his  pride  elate, 
Rejects  the  promise  of  a  brighter  state, 
And  leaves  the  rock,  no  tempest  shall  dis- 
place, [base  ? 
To  rear  his  dwelling  on  the  quicksand's 

Votary  of  doubt !    then  join  the  festal 

throng, 

Bask  in  the  sunbeam,  listen  to  the  song, 
Spread  the  rich  board,  and  fill  the  wine-cup 

high, 

And  bind  the  wreath  ere  yet  the  roses  die  ! 
'Tis  well— thine  eye  is  yet  undimmed  by 

time,  [prime ; 

And  thy   heart  bounds,   exulting    in   its 
Smile  then  unmoved  at  Wisdom's  warning 

voice, 
And  in  the  glory  of  thy  strength,  rejoice  1 

But  life  hath  sterner  tasks  ;  e'en  youth's 

brief  hours 
Survive  the  beauty  of  their  lovelies  flowers ; 


108 


THE  SCEPTIC. 


The  founts  of  joy,  where  pilgrims  rest  from 

toil, 

Are  few  and  distant  on  the  desert  soil ; 
The  soul's  pure  flame  the  breath  of  storms 

must  fan,  [Man  ! 

And  pain  and  sorrow  claim  their  nursling — 
Earth's  noblest  sons  the  bitter  cup  have 

shared —  [pared  ? 

Proud  child  of  reason  1  how  art  thou  pre- 
When  years,  with  silent  might,  thy  frame 

have  bowed, 

And  o'er  thy  spirit  cast  their  wintry  cloud, 
Will  Memory  soothe  thee  on  thy  bed  of 

pain, 
With  the  bright  images  of  pleasure's  train  ? 

Yes  1   as  the  sight  of  some  far-distant 

shore,  [no  more, 

Whose  well-known  scenes  his  foot  shall  tread 
Would  cheer  the  seaman,  by  the  eddying 

wave  [grave ! 

Drawn,  vainly  struggling,  toth'  unfathomed 
Shall  Hope,  the  faithful  cherub,  hear  thy 

call,  [for  all  ? 

She,  who  like  heaven's  own  sunbeam,  smiles 
Will  she  speak  comfort  ? — Thou  hast  shorn 

her  plume,  [tomb, 

That  might  have  raised  thee  far  above  the 
And  hushed  the  only  voice  whose  angel  tone 
Soothes  when  all  melodies  of  joy  are  flown ! 

For  she  was  born  beyond  the  stars  to 

soar, 

And  kindling  at  the  source  of  life,  adore  ; 
Thou  couldst  not,  mortal  1  rivet  to  the 

earth 

Her  eye,  whose  beam  is  of  celestial  birth  ; 
She  dwells  with  those  who  leave  her  pinion 

free,  [thee. 

And  sheds  the  dews  of  heaven  on  aO  but 

Yet  few  there  are  so  lonely,  so  bereft, 
But  some  true  heart,  that  beats  to  theirs,  is 
left ;  power, 

And,  haply,  one  whose  strong  affection's 
Unchanged,  may  triumph  through  misfor- 
tune's hour,  [head, 
Still  with  fond  care  supports  thy  languid 
And  keeps  unwearied  vigils  by  thy  bed. 

But  thou  I  whose  thoughts  have  no  blest 

home  above,  [love  f 

Captive  of  earth  I  and  canst  thou  dare  to 

To  nurse  such  feelings  as  delight  to  rest, 

Within  that  hallowed  shrine — a  parent's 

breast, 

To  fix  each  hope,  concentrate  every  tie, 
Oa  one  frail  idol— destined  but  to  die  ; 


Yet  mock  the  faith  that  points  to  worlds  of 
light,.  [unite? 

Where  severed  souls,   made    perfect,    re- 
Then  tremble !  cling  to  every  parsing  joy,  ' 
Twined  with  the  life  a  moment  may  de- 
stroy I 

If  there  be  sorrow  in  a  parting  tear, 
Still  let  "/or  ever"  vibrate  on  thine  ear  I 
If  some  bright  hour  on  rapture's  wing  hath 

flown, 

Find  more  than  anguish  in  the  thought — 
'tis  gone ' 

Go  i    to  a  voice  such  magic  influence 

give, 

Thou  canst  not  lose  its  melody,  and  live ; 
And  make  an  eye  the  load-star  of  thy  soul, 
And  let  a  glance  the  springs  of  thought 

control  ; 

Gaze  on  a  mortal  form  with  fond  delight; 
Till  the  fair  vision  mingles  with  thy  sight ; 
There  seek  thy  blessings,  there  repose  thy 

trust, 

Lean  on  the  willow,  idolize  the  dust  J 
Then,  when  thy  treasure  best  repays  thy 

care,  [spair  I 

Think  on  that  dread  "for  ever"  and  de- 

And  oh  !   no  strange,  unwonted  storm 

there  needs 

To  wreck  at  once  thy  fragile  ark  of  reeds. 
Watch  well  its  course — explore  with  anxious 

eye 

Each  little  cloud  that  floats  along  the  sky 
Is  the  blue  canopy  serenely  fair? 
Yet  may  the  thunderbolt  unseen  be  there, 
And  the  bark  sink,  when  peace  and  sun- 
shine sleep 

On  the  smooth  bosom  of  the  waveless  deep  I 
Yes !  ere  a  sound,  a  sign,  announce  thy 

fate, 

May  the  blow  fall  which  makes  thee  deso- 
late! 
Not   always    Heaven's   destroying    angel 

shrouds 

His  awful  form  in  tempests  and  in  clouds; 
He  fills  the  summer  air  with  latent  power, 
He  hides  his  venom  in  the  scented  flower, 
He  steals  upon  thee  in  the  Zephyr's  breath, 
And  festal  garlands  veil  the  shafts  of  death  I 

Where  art  thou  then,  who  thus  didst 

rashly  cast 

Thine  all  upon  the  mercy  of  the.  blast, 
And  vainly  hope  the  tree  of  life  to  find 
Rooted  in  sands  that  flit  before  the  wind  ? 
Is  not  that«earth  thy  spirit  loved  so  well, 
It  wished  not  in  a  brighter  sphere  to  dwell 


THE  SCEPTIC. 


109 


Become  a  desert  now,  a  vale  of  gloom, 
O'ershadowed  with  the  midnight  of  the 

tomb? 
Where  shalt  thou  turn  ? — it  is  not  thine  to 

raise 
To  yon  pure  heaven  thy  calm  confiding 

gaze- 
No  gleam  reflected  from  that  realm  of  rest 
Steals  on  the  darkness  of  thy  troubled 

breast, 

Not  for  thine  eye  shall  Faith  divinely  shed 
Her  glory  round  the  image  of  the  dead  ; 
And  if,  when  slumber's  lonely  couch  is 

prest, 

The  form  departed  be  thy  spirit's  guest, 
It  bears  no  light  from  purer  worlds  to  this ; 
Thy  future  lends  not  e'en  a  dream  of  bliss. 

But  who  shall  dare  the  Gate  of  Life  to 

close, 

Or  say,  thus  far  the  stream  of  mercy  flows  ? 
That   fount   unsealed,    whose   boundless 

waves  embrace 

Each  distant  isle,  and  visit  every  race, 
Pours  from  the  throne  of  God  its  current 

free, 

Nor  yet  denies  th"  immortal  draught  to  thee. 
Oh  I  while  the  doom  impends,  not  yet  de- 
creed, 
While  yet  th'  Atoner  hath  not  ceased  to 

plead — >    • 

While  still,  Suspended  by  a  single  hair, 
The  sharp  bright  sword  hangs  quivering  in 

the  air, 
Bow  down  thy  heart  to  Him,  who  will  not 

break 

The  bruised  reed  ;  e'en  yet,  awake,  awake  1 
Patient.^ because  Eternal,*  He  may  hear 
Thy  prayer  of  agony  with  pitying  ear, 
And  send  his  chastening  spirit  from  above, 
O'er  the  deep  chaos  of  thy  soul  to  move. 

But  seek  thou  mercy  through  his  name 

alone,  [shown ; 

To  whose  unequalled  sorrows  none  was 

Through  Him,  who  here  in  mortal  garb 

abode, 

As  man  to  suffer,  and  to  heal,  as  God ; 
And,  born  the  sons  of  utmost  time  to  bless, 
Endured  all  scorn,  and  aided  all  distress. 

Call  thou  on  Him — for  He,  in  human 

form,  [the  storm. 

Hath  walked  the  waves  of  Life,  and  stilled 


••  "  He  Is  patient,  because  be  Is  eternal."— ST. 

AUGUSTINE. 


He,  when  her  hour  of  lingering  grace  was 

past, 

O'er  Salem  wept,  relenting  to  the  last. 
Wept  with  such  tears  as  Judah's  monarch 

poured, 

O'er  his  lost  child,  ungrateful,  yet  deplored ; 
And,  offering  guiltless   blood  that   guilt 

might  live, 
Taught  from  his  Cross  the  lesson  to  forgive  I 

Call  thou  on  Him— his  prayer  e'en  then 

arose. 

Breathed  in  unpitied  anguish  for  his  foes. 
And  haste !  ere  bursts  the  lightning  from 

on  high, 

Fly  to  the  City  of  thy  Refuge,  fly  1* 
So  shall  th'  Avenger  turn  his  steps  away, 
And  sheath  his  falchion,  baffled  of  its  prey. 

Yet  must  long  days  roll  on,  ere  peace 

shall  brood,  [dued ; 

As  the  soft  Halycon,  o'er  thy  heart  sub- 
Ere  yet  the  Dove  of  Heaven  descend,  to 

shed 

Inspiring  influence  o'er  thy  fallen  head. 
—He  who  hath  pined  in  dungeons,  'midst 

the  shade 
Of  such  deep  night  as  man  for  man  hath 

made. 
Through  lingering  years ;  if  called  at  length 

to  be, 
Once  more,  by  nature's  boundless  charter, 

free,  [shun, 

Shrinks  feebly  back,  the  blaze  of  noon  to 
Fainting  at  day,  and  blasted  by  the  sun. 

Thus  when  the  captive  soul  hath  long 

remained 

In  its  own  dread  abyss  of  darkness  chained, 
If  the  Deliverer,  in  his  might,  at  last, 
Its  fetters,  born  of  earth,  to  earth  should 

cast, 
The  beam  of  truth  o'erpowers  its  dazzled 

sight, 

Trembling  it  sinks,  and  finds  no  joy  in  light. 
But  this  will  pass  away — that  spark  of  mind, 
Within  thy  frame  unquenchably  enshrined, 
Shall  live  to  triumph  in  its  brightening  ray, 
Born  to  be  fostered  with  ethereal  day. 
Then  wilt  thou  bless  the  hour  when  o'er 

thee  passed, 
On  wing  of  flame,  the  purifying  blast, 


*  "Then  ye  shall  appoint  you  cities,  to  be 
dries  of  refuge  for  you ;  that  the  skyer  may  flee 
thither  which  killeth  any  person  at  unawares. — 
And  they  shall  be  unto  you  citier  of  refuge  rroro 
the  avenger,  "—fifitmbtrt,  chap.  JKKY. 


110 


THE  SCEPTIC. 


And  sorrow's  voice,  through  paths  before 

untrod, 
Like  Sinai's  trumpet,  called  face  to  thy 

God! 

But  hop'st  thou,  in  thy  panoply  of  pride, 
Heaven's  messenger,  affliction,  to  deride  ? 
In  thine  own  strength  unaided  to  defy, 
With  Stoic  smile,  the  arrows  of  the  sky  ? 
Tom  by  the  vulture,  fettered  to  the  rock, 
Still,    Demigod  t    the  tempest    wilt  thou 

mock  ?  [brow 

Alas  !  the  tower  that  crests  the  mountain's 
A  thousand  years  may  awe  the  vale  below, 
Yet  not  the  less  be  shattered  on  its 

height 
By  one  dread  moment  of  the  earthquake's 

might ! 
A  thousand  pangs  thy  bosom  may  have 

borne, 

In  silent  fortitude,  or  haughty  scorn, 
Till  comes  the  one,  the  master-anguish,  sent 
To  break  the  mighty  heart  that  ne'er  was 

bent. 

Oh  I   what  is  nature's  strength  ?    The 

vacant  eye, 

By  mind  deserted,  hath  a  dread  reply  I 
The  wild  delirious  laughter  of  despair, 
The  mirth  of  frenzy,  seek  an  answer  there  ! 
Turn  not  away,  though  pity's  cheek  grow 

pale, 

Close  not  thine  ear  against  their  awful  tale, 
They  tell  thee  reason,  wandering  from  the 

ray 

Of  Faith,  the  blazing  pillar  of  her  way, 
In  the  mid-darkness  of  the  stormy  wave, 
Forsook  the  struggling  soul  she  could  not 

save  1 

Weep  not,  sad  moralist !  o'er  desert  plains, 
Strewed  with  the  wrecks  of  grandeur — 

mouldering  fanes, 
Arches  of  triumph,  long  with  weeds  o'er- 

grown, 

And  regal  cities,  now  the  serpent's  own  : 
Earth  has  more  awful  ruins — one  lost  mind, 
Whose  star  is  quenched,  hath  lessons  for 

mankind 

Of  deeper  import  than  each  prostrate  dome 
Mingling  its  marble  with  the  dust  of  Rome." 

But  who  with  eye  unshrinking  shall  ex- 
plore 

That  waste,  illumed  by  reason's  beam  no 
more? 

Who  pierce  the  deep,  mysterious  clouds 
that  roll 

Ajroun4  tbe  shattered  temple  of  the  soul, 


Curtained  with  midnight — low  its  columns 

lie, 

And  dark  the  chambers  of  its  imagery  ;* 
Sunk  are  its  idols  now — and  God  alone 
May  rear   the   fabric   by  their  fall   o'er- 

thrown  1  [bare, 

Yet1  from  its  inmost  shrine,  by  storms  laid 
Is  heard  an  oracle  that  cries — "  Beware  I" 
Child  of  the  dust  1  but  ransomed  of  the 

skies  !  [dies  t 

One  breath  of  Heaven — and  thus  thy  glory 
Haste,  ere  the  hour  of  doom,  draw  nigh  to 

Him 
Who  dwells  above  between  the  cherubim  1" 

Spirit  dethroned  !  and  checked  in  mid 

career- 
Son  of  the  morning  I  exiled  from  thy  sphere, 
Tell  us  thy  tale  1 — Perchance  thy  race  was 

run 

With  Science  in  the  chariot  of  the  sun  ; 
Free  as  the  winds  the  paths  of  space  to 

sweep,  [deep, 

Traverse  the  untrodden  kingdoms  of  the 
And  search  the  laws  that  Nature's  springs 

control,  [whole  1 

There  tracing  all — save  Him  who  guides  the 

Haply  thine  eye  its  ardent  glance  had  cast 
Through  the  dim  shades,  the  portals  of  the 

past ;  [fed 

By  the  bright  lamp  of  thought  thy  care  had 
From  the  far  beacon  lights  of  ages  fled, 
The  depths  of  time  exploring,  to  retrace 
The  glorious  march  of  maiiy  a  vanished 

race. 

Or  did  thy  power  pervade  the  living  lyre, 
Till  its  deep  chords  became  instinct  with  fire, 
Silenced  all  meaner  notes,  and  swelled  on 

high, 

Full  and  alone,  their  mighty  harmony, 
While  woke  each  passion  from  its  cell  pro 

found. 
And  nations  started  at  th'  electric  sound? 

Lord  of  the  Ascendant  [  what  avails  it 
now,  [brow  ? 

Though  bright  the  laurels  waved,  upon  thy 
What  though   thy  name  through  distant, 
empires  heard,  [word  ? 

Bade  the  heart  bound,  as  doth  a  Dattle- 
Was  it  for  this  thy  still  unwearied  eye, 
Kept  vigil  with  the  watch-fires  of  the  sky, 


*  "Every  man  In  the  chambers  of  his  lir* 
Vsry"—£ttkielt  chap.  vlu. 


THE  SCEPTIC. 


Ill 


To  make  the  secrets  of  all  ages  thine, 
And  commune  with  majestic  thoughts  that 

shine 
O'er  Time's  long  shadowy  pathway? — hath 

thy  mind 

Severed  its  lone  dominions  from  mankind. 
For  this  to  woo  their  homage  ?    Thou  hast 

sought 

All,  save  the  wisdom  with  salvation  fraught, 
Won  every  wreath — but  that  which  will  not 

die, 
Nor  aught  neglected — save  eternity ! 

And  did  all  fail  thee,  in  the  hour  of  wrath, 
When  burst  th  o'erwhelming  vials  on  thy 
path?  [then, 

Could  not  the  voice  of  Fame  inspire  thee 
O  spirit  I  sceptred  by  the  sons  of  men. 
With  an  Immortal's  courage,  to  sustain 
The  transient  agonies  of  earthly  pain? 

•—One,  one  there  was,  all-powerful  to  have 

saved 

When  the  loud  fury  of  the  billow  raved ; 
But  Him  thou  knew'st  not— and  the  light 

he  lent 

Hath  vanished  from  its  ruined  tenement, 
But  left  thee  breathing,  moving,  lingering 

yet, 
A  thing  we  shrink  from — vainly  to  forget  I 

—.Lift  the  dread  veil  no  further — hide,  oh  I 

hide 

The  bleeding  form,  the  couch  of  suicide  I 
The  dagger,  grasped  in  death — the  brow, 

the  eye, 

Lifeless,  yet  stamped  with  rage  and  agony ; 
The  soul  s  dark  traces  left  in  many  a  line 
Graved  on  his  mien,  who  died — "  and  made 

no  sign  t"  [brain 

Approach  not,  gaze  not — lest  thy  fevered 
Too  deep  that  image  of  despair  retain. 
Angels  of  slumber  I  o'er  the  midnight  hour 
Let  not  such  visions    claim   unhallowed 

power, 

Lest  the  mind  sink  with  terror,  and  above 
See    but    th'  Avenger's    arm,    forget  th' 

Atoner's  love  1 

O  Thou  1  the  unseen,  the  all-seeing  I— 

Tf'ou  whose  ways 

Mantled  with  darkness,  mock  all  finite  gaze, 
Before  whose   eyes  the  creatures  of  Thy 

hand, 

Seraph  and  m&j,  alike  in  weakness  stand, 
And  countless  ages,  trampling  into  clay 
Earth's  empires  on  their  march,  are  but  a 

day; 


Father  of  worlds  unknown,  unnumbered  !— 

Thou, 

With  whom  all  time  is  one  eternal  now, 
Who  know'st  no  past  nor  future — Thou 

whose  breath  [death, 

Goes  forth,  and  bears  to  myriads  life  or 
Look  on  us,  guide  us  ! — wanderers  of  a  sea 
Wild  and  obscure,  what  are  we,  reft  of 

Thee? 

A  thousartf  rocks,  deep  hid,  elude  oursight, 
A  star  may  set — and  we  are  lost  in  night ; 
A  breeze  may  waft  us  to  the  whirlpool's 

brink, 
A  treacherous  song  allure  us — and  we  sink  1 

Oh  !  by  /ft?  love,  who,  veiling  Godhead's 

light, 

To  moments  circumscribed  the  Infinite, 
And  Heaven  and  Earth  disdained  not  to  ally 
By  that  dread  union — Man  with  Deity  ; 
Immortal  tears  o'er  mortal  woes  who  shed, 
And,  ere  he  raised  them,  wept  above  the 

dead  ; 

Save,  or  we  perish  I  Let  Thy  word  control 
The  earthquakes  of  that  universe— the  soul ; 
Pervade  the  depths  of  passion— speak  once 

more 

The  mighty  mandate,  guard  of  every  shore, 
11  Here  shall  thy  waves  be  stayed,"  in  grief, 

in  pain,  [tain, 

The  fearful  poise  of  reason's  sphere  main- 
Thou,  by  whom  suns  are  balanced ! — thus 

secure 

In  Thee  shall  Faith  and  Fortitude  endure ; 
Conscious  of  Thee,  unfaltering  shall  the  just 
Look  upward  still,  in  high  and  holy  trust, 
And,  by  affliction  guided  to  Thy  shrine, 
The  first,  last  thoughts  of  suffering  hearts 

be  Thine. 

And  oh  !  be  near  when  clothed  with  con- 
quering power,  [hour : 
The  King  of  Terrors  claims  his  own  dread 
When,  on  the  edge  of  that  unknown  abyss 
Which  darkly  parts  us  from  the  realm  of 

bliss, 

Awestruck  alike  the  timid  and  the  brave, 
Alike  subdued  the  monarch  and  the  slave, 
Must  drink  the  cup  of  trembling*— whec 

we  see 

Nought  in  the  universe  but  Death  and  Thee, 

Forsake  us  not — if  still,   when   life  was 

young.  [sprung, 

Faith  to  thy  bosom,  as  hei   home,   hath 


*  "Thou  hast  drunken  the  dregs  of  the  cue 
of  trembling,  jwd  wrung  them  out,"—  /Wl<*% 
he 


chepti, 


112 


THE  SCEPTIC. 


If  Hope's  retreat  hath  been,  through  all 

the  past, 

The  shadow  by  the  Rock  of  Ages  cast, 
Father,   forsake  us   not  1 — when    tortures 

urge 

The  shrinking  soul  to  that  mysterious  verge, 
When  from  Thy  justice  to  Thy  love  we  fly, 
On  Nature's  conflict  look  with  pitying  eye, 
Bid  the  strong  wind,  the  fire,  the  earth- 
quake cease,  [Peace  1  * 
Come  in  the  small  still  voice,  and  whisper — 

For  oh  !  'tis  awful !  He  that  hatfc  beheld 
The  parting  spirit,  by  its  fears  repelled, 
Cling  in  weak  terror  to  its  earthly  chain, 
And  from  the  dizzy  brink  recoil,  in  vain  ; 
He  that  hath  seen  the  last  convulsive  throe 
Dissolve  the  union  formed  and  closed  in 

woe,  [pride 

Well  knows  that  hour  is  awful.— In  the 
Of  youth   and   health,  by  sufferings   yet 

untried,  ['twere  sweet 

We  talk   of  Death  as   something  which 
.In  Glory's  arms  exultingly  to  meet, 
A  closing  triumph,  a  majestic  scene, 
Where  gazing  nations  watch  the   hero's 

mien, 

As,  undismayed  amidst  the  tears  of  all, 
He  folds  his  mantle,  regally  to  fall  1 

Hush,  fond  enthusiast  1 — still,  obscure, 

and  lone, 

Vet  not  less  terrible  because  unknown, 
Is  the  last  hour  of  thousands — they  retire 
From  life's  thronged    path,    unnoticed  to 

expire. 

As  the  light  leaf,  whose  fall  to  ruin  bears 
Some  trembling  insect's  little  world  of  cares, 
Descends  in  silence — while  around  waves  on 
The  mighty  forest,  reckless  what  is  gone  ! 
Such  is  man's  doom — and,  ere  an  hour  be 

flown,  [own. 

Start  not,  thon  trifler  1 — such  may  be  thine 

But,  as  life's  current  in  its  ebb  draws  near 

The  shadowy  gulf,  there  wakes  a  thought 

of  fear,  [before, 

A  thrilling  thought,  which,  haply  mocked 

We  fain  would  stifle — but  it  sleeps  no  more  I 


*  "And  behold  the  Lord  passed  by,  and  a 
•great  and  strong  wind  rent  the  mountains,  and 
brake  in  pieces  the  rocks  before  the  Lord  ;  but 
.the  Lord  was  not  in  the  wind :  and  after  the 
wind  an  earthquake ;  but  the  Lord  was  not  in 
the  earthquake  :  and  after  the  earthquake  a  fire ; 
but  the  Lord  wrs  not  in  the  fire :  and  after  the 
Se  3  still  snail  voice. "— Kingt,  book  I  chap.  19. 


There  are,  who  fly  its  murmurs  midst  the 

throng, 

That  join  the  masque  of  revelry  and  song, 
Yet    still    Death's   image,   by  its   power 

restored, 

Frowns -'midst  the  roses  of  the  festal  board, 
And  when  deep  shades  o'er  earth  and  ocean 

brood, 

And  the  heart  owns  the  might  of  solitude, 
Is  its  low  whisper  heard — a  note  profound, 
But  wild  and   startling  as  the  trurripet- 

sound, 
That  bursts,  with  sudden  blast,  the  dead 

repose 
Of  some  proud  city,  stormed  by  midnight 

foes! 

Oh  I  vainly  reason's  scornful  voice  would 
prove  [love, 

That  life  had  nought  to  claim  such  lingering 
And  ask  if  e'er  the  captive,  half  unchained, 
Clung  to  the  links  which  yet  his  step  re- 
strained ? 

In  vain  philosophy,  with  tranquil  pride, 
Would  mock  the  feelings  she  perchance 

can  hide, 

Call  up  the  countless  armies  of  the  dead, 
Point  to  the  pathway  beaten  by  their  tread, 
And  say—"  What  wouldst  thou  ?  Shall  the 

fixed  decree, 

Made  for  creation,  be  reversed  for  thee  f 
— Poor,  feeble  aid  1 — proud  Stoic  I  ask  not 

why, 

It  is  enough  that  nature  shrinks  to  die  I 
Enough  that  horror,  which  thy  words  up- 
braid, 

Is  her  dread  penalty,  and  must  be  paid  1 
— Search  thy  deep  wisdom,  solve  the  scarce 

defined 

And  mystic  questions  of  the  parting  mind, 
Half  checked,  half  uttered,— tell  her,  what 

shall  burst, 

In  whelming  grandeur,  on  her  vision  first. 
When  freed  from  mortal  films  ?  —  what 

viewless  world 
Shall  first  receive  her  wing,  but  half  uo- 

furled? 

What  awful  and  unbodied  beings  guide 
Her  timid  flight  through  regions  yet  untried? 
Say,  if  at  once,'  her  final  doom  to  hear, 
Before  her  God  the  trembler  must  appear, 
Or  wait  that  day  of  terror,  when  the  sea 
Shall  yield  its  hidden  dead,  and  heaven  and 
earth  shall  flee. 

Hast  thou  no  answer?    Then  deride  no 

more  [explore 

The  thoughts  that  shrink,  yet  cease  uot  to 


THE  SCEPTIC. 


U3 


Th'  unknown,    th'  unseen,   the  future — 

though  the  heart, 

As  at  unearthly  sounds,  before  them  start, 
Though  the  frame  shudder,  and  the  spirits 

sigh, 

They  have  their  source  in  immortality  1 
Whence,  then,  shall  strength,  which  reason's 

aid  denies, 

An  equal  to  the  mortal  conflict  rise? 
When,  on  the  swift  pale  house,  whose  light- 
ning pace, 

Where'er  we  fly,  still  wins  the  dreadful  race, 
The  mighty  rider  comes— -oh,  whence  shall 

aid 

Be  drawn,  to  meet  his  rushing,  undismayed? 
—Whence,  but  from  thee,  Messiah  I— thou 

hast  drained 

The  bitter  cup,  till  not  the  dregs  remained, 
To  thee  the  struggle  and  the  pangs  were 

known, 
The  mystic  horror— all  became  thine  own  1 

But  did  no  hand  celestial  succour  bring, 
Till  scorn  and  anguish  haply  lost  their 

sting? 

Came  not  th'  Archangel,  in  the  final  hour, 
To  arm  thee  with  invulnerable  power? 
No,  Son  of  God  I  upon  thy  sacred  head 
The  shafts  of  wrath  their  tenfold  fury  shed, 
From  man  averted — and  thy  path  on  high, 
Passed  through  the  strait  of  fiercest  agony : 
For  thus  th'  Eternal,  with  propitious  eyes, 
Received  the  last,  th'  almighty  sacrifice  I 

,     But  wake  I  be  glad,  ye  nations  I  from  the 

tomb, 

Is  won  the  victory,  and  is  fled  the  gloom  I 
The  vale  of  death  in  conquest  hath  been 

trod,  [God ; 

Break  forth  in  joy,  ye  ransomed !  saith  your 
Swell  ye  the  raptures  of  the  song  afar, 
And  hail  with  harps  your  bright  and  morning 

Star. 

He  rose !  the  everlasting  gates  of  day 
Received  the  King  of  Glory  on  his  way  I 
The  Hope,  the  Comforterof  thosewhowept, 
And  the  first-fruits  of  them,  in  Him  that 

slept, 

He  rose,  he  triumphed  1  he  will  yet  sustain 
Frail  nature  sinking  in  the  strife  of  pain. 
Aided  by  Him,  around  the  martyr's  frame 
When  fiercely  blazedalivingshroud  offlame, 
Hath  the  firm  soul  exulted,  and  the  voice 
Raised   the  victorious  hymn,  and  cried. 

Rejoice ! 

Aided  by  Him,  though  none  the  bed  attend, 
Where  tbe  lone,  suflej-erdic^  without  a  friend, 


He  whom  the  busy  world  shall  miss  no  more 
Than  morn  one  dewdrop  from  her  count- 
less store,  [heart, 
Earth's  most  neglected  child,  with  trusting 
Called  to  the  hope  of  glory,  shall  depart  I 

And  say,  cold  Sophist  I  if  by  thee  bereft 
Of  that  high  hope,  to  misery  what  were  left  ? 
But  for  the  vision  of  the  days  to  be, 
But  for  the  Comforter  despised  by  thee, 
Should  we  not  wither  at  theCbastener'slook, 
Should  we  not   sink  beneath  our  God's 

rebuke, 

When  o'er  our  heads  the  desolating  blast, 
Fraught   with   inscrutable   decrees,    hath 

passed,  [prey» 

And  the  stern  power  who  seeks  the  noblest 
Hath  called  our  fairest  and  our  best  away? 
Should  we  not  madden  when  our  eyes  behold, 
All  that  we  loved  in  marble  stillness  cold, 
No  more  responsive  to  our  smile  or  sigh, 
Fixed — frozen — silent — all  mortality? 
But  for  the  promise,  all  shall  yet  be  well, 
Would  not  the  spirit  in  its  pangs  rebel, 
Beneath  such  clouds  as  darkened,  when  the 

.hand 

Of  wrath  lay  heavy  on  our  prostrate  land, 
And  Thou,*  just  lent  thy  gladdened  isles  to 

bless, 

Then  snatched  from  earth  with  all  thy  love- 
liness, , 
With  all  a  nation's  blessings  on  thy  head, 
O  England's  flower  I  wert  gathered  to  the 

dead  ?  [heart, 

But  Thou  didst  teach  us.    Thou  to  every 
Faith's  lofty  lesson  didst  thyself  impart  I 
When  fled  the  hope  through  all  thy  pangs 

which  smiled,  [child, 

When  thy  young  bosom,  o'er  thy  lifeless 
Yearned  with  vain  longing — still  thy  patient 

eye, 

To  its  last  light,  beamed  holy  constancy  I 
Tom  from  a  lot  in  cloudless  sunshine  cast, 
Amidst  those  agonies — thy  first  and  last, 
Thy  pale  lip,   quivering  with  convulsive 

throes, 

Breathednot  a  plaint— andsettled  in  repose ; 
While  bowed  thy  royal  head  to  Him,  whose 

power 

Spoke  in  the  fiat  of  that  midnight  hour, 
Who  from  the  brightest  vision  of  a  throne, 
Love,  glory,  empire,  claimed  thee  for  his 

own,  [coast, 

And  spread  such  terror  o'er  the  sea-girt 
As  blasted  Israel  when  her  Ark  was  lost  I 


•  The  Princeu  Charlotte  of  Wales, 


TEE  SCEPTIC. 


"  It  is  the  will  of  God  1"  —  yet,  yet  we  hear 
The  words  which  closed  thy  beautiful  career, 
Yet  should  we  mourn  thee  in  thy  blest  abode, 
But  for  that  thought—  "  It  is  the  will  of 

Godl" 

Who  shall  arraign  th'  Eternal's  dark  decree, 
If  not  one  murmur  then  escaped  from  thee? 
Dh  1  still,  though  vanishing  without  a  trace, 
Thou  hast  not  left  one  scion  of  thy  race, 
Still  may  thy  memory  bloom  our  vales 

among, 

Hallowed  by  freedom  and  enshrined  in  song  ! 
Still  may  thy  pure,  majestic  spirit  dwell, 
Bright  on  the  isles  which  loved  thy  name 

so  well, 

E'en  as  an  angel,  with  presiding  care, 
To  wake  and  guard  thine  own  high  virtues 

there. 

[skies, 

For  lo  !  the  hour  when  storm-presaging 
Call  on  the  watchers  of  the  land  to  rise, 
To  set  the  sign  of  fire  on  every  height,* 
And  o'er  the  mountains  rear,  with  patriot 

might, 

Prepared,  if  summoned,  in  its  cause  to  die, 
The  banner  of  our  faith,  the  Cross  of  victory  1 

By  this  hath  England  conquered—  field  and 

flood 
Have  owned  her  sovereignty  —  alone  she 

stood,  [were  thrown, 

When  chains  o'er  all  the  sceptred  earth 
In  high  and  holy  singleness,  alone, 
But  mighty,  in  her  God  —  and  shall  she  now 
Forget  before  th'  Omnipotent  to  bow  ? 
From  the  bright  fountain  of  her  glory  turn 
Or  bid  strange  fire  upon  his  altars  burn  ? 


•  "And  set  «p  » 


No  I  severed  land         $t  rocks  and  billows 

rude, 

Throned  in  thy  majesty  of  solitude, 
Still  in  the  deep  asylum  of  thy  breast 
Shall  the  pure  elements  of  greatness  rest, 
Virtue  and  faith,  the  tutelary  powers, 
Thy  hearths  that  hallow,  and  defend  thy 

towers  I 

[isle  I 

Still,  where  thy  hamlet-vales,  O  chosen 
In  the  soft  beauty  of  their  verdure  smile, 
Where  yew  and  elm  o'ershade  the  lowly 

fanes,  [mains, 

That  guard  the  peasant's  records  and  re- 
May  the  blest  echoes  of  the  Sabbath-bell 
Sweet  on  the  quiet  of  the  woodlands  swell, 
And '  from  each  cottage  dwelling  of  thy 

glades, 
When    starlight    glimmers    through    the 

deepening  shades, 

Devotion's  voice  in  choral  hymns  arise, 
And  bear  the  Land's  warm  incense  to  the 

skies. 

There  may  the  mother,  as  with  anxious  joy, 
To  Heaven  her  lessons  consecrate  her  boy, 
Teach  his  young  accent  still  th'  immorta.' 

lays 

Of  Zion's  bards,  in  inspiration's  days, 
When   Angels,    whispering    through    the 

cedar's  shade, 

Prophetic  tones  to  Judah's  harp  conveyed  ; 
And  as,  her  soul  all  glistening  in  her  eyes, 
She  bids  the  prayer  of  infancy  arise, 
Tell  of  His  name,  who  left  his  Throne  on 

high, 

Earth's  lowliest  lot  to  bear  and  sanctify, 
His  love  divine,  by  keenest  anguish  tried, 
And  fondly  say — "My  child,  for  thee  He 

died  r 


115 


1821. 
D  ARTMOOK. 

A  PRIZE  POEM. 

«*  Come,  bright  Improvement !  on  the  car  of  Tinvty 
And  rule  the  spacious  world  from  clime  to  clime  I 
Thy  handmaid  Art,  shall  every  wild  explore, 
Trace  every  wave,  and  culture  every  shore. "-*CAMPBELL| 

"  May  ne'er 

That  true  succession  fail  of  English  hearts, 
That  can  perceive,  not  less  than  heretofore, 
Our  ancestors  did  feelingly  perceive, 
.  .       i       .    the  charm 

Of  pious  sentiment,  diffused  afar, 
And  human  charity,  and  social  love." — WORDSWORTH. 


AMIDST  the  peopled  and  the  regal  Isle, 
Whose  vales,  rejoicing  in  their  beauty, 

smile ; 

Whose  cities,  fearless  of  the  spoiler,  tower, 
And  send  on  every  breeze  a  voice  of  power ; 
Hath  Desolation  reared  herself  a  throne, 
And  marked  a  pathless   region  for  her 

own?—  [wore, 

Ves  1  though  thy  turf  no  stain  of  carnage 
When  bled  the  noble  hearts  of  many  a  shore, 
Though  not  a  hostile  step  thy  heath-flowers 

bent,  [rent ; 

When  empires  tottered,  and  the  earth  was 
Yet  lone,  as  if  some  trampler  of  mankind 
Had  stilled  life's  busy  murmurs  on  the  wind, 
And,  flushed  with  power  in  daring  Pride's 

excess, 

Stamped  on  thy  soil  the  curse  of  barrenness, 
For  thee  in  vain  descend  the  dews  of  heaven, 
In  vain  the  sunbeam  and  the  shower  are 

given ;  [mountains  rude, 

Wild  DARTMOOR  !  thou  that,  'midst  thy 
Hast  robed  thyself  with  haughty  solitude, 
As  a  dark  cloud  on  Summer's  clear  blue  sky, 
A  mourner,  circled  with  festivity  I 
For  all  beyond  is  life  I— the  rolling  sea, 
The  rush,  the  swell,  whose  echoes  reach 

not  thee. 

Yet  who  shall  find  a  scene  so  wild  and  bare, 
But  man  has  left  his  lingering  traces 

there?— 

E'en  on  mysterious  Afric's  boundless  plains, 
Where  noon,  with  attributes  of  midnight, 

reigns, 

In  gloom  and  silence,  fearfully  profound, 
As  of  a  world  unwaked  to  soul  or  sound  ; 
Though  the  sad  wanderer  of  the  burning 

zone 
Feels,  as  amidst  infinity,  alone, 


And  naught  of  life  be  near ;  his  camel's  tread 
Is  o'er  the  prostrate  cities  of  the  dead  I 
Some  column,    reared  by  long-forgotten 

hands, 

Just  lifts  its  head  above  the  billowy  sands- 
Some  mouldering  shrine  still  consecrates 

the  scene,  [been. 

And  tells  that  Glory's  footstep  there  hath 
There  hath  the  Spirit  of  the  Mighty  passed, 
Not  without  record  ;  though  the  desert 

blast,  [away 

Borne  on  the  wings  of  Time,  hath  swept 
The  proud  creations,  reared  to  brave  decay. 
But  thou,  lone  region !  whose  unnoticed 

name  [fame, 

No  lofty  deeds  have  mingled  with  their 
Who  shall  unfold  thint  annals  ? — who  shall 

tell 

If  on  thy  soil  the  sons  of  heroes  fell, 
In  those  far  ages,  which  have  left  nb  trace, 
No  sunbeam  on  the  pathway  of  their  race  ? 
Though,  haply,  in  the  unrecorded  days 
Of  kings  and  chiefs,  who  passed  without 

their  praise,  [the  free, 

Thou  mightst  have  reared  the  valiant  and 
In  history's  page  there  is  no  tale  of  thee. 

Yet  hast  thou  thy  memorials.    On  the 

wild, 

Still  rise  the  cairns,  of  yore,  all  rudely  piled, 
But  hallowed  by  that  instinct,  which  reveres 
Things  fraught  with  characters  of  elder 

years.  [flown, 

And  such  are  these.  Long  centuries  have 
Bowed  many  a  crest,  and  shattered  many  a 

throne, 

Mingling  the  urn,  the  trophy,  and  the  bust, 
With  what  they  hide — their  shrined  and 

treasured  dust. 


116 


DARTMOOR. 


Men  traverse  Alps  and  Oceans,  to  behold 
Earth's  glorious  works  fast  mingling  with 

her  mould ; 

But  still  these  nameless  chroniclers  of  death, 
'Midst  the  deep  §ilence  of  th'  unpeopled 

heath, 

Stand  in  primeval  artlessness,  and  wear 
The  same  sepulchral  mien,  and  almost  share 
Th'  eternity  of  nature,  with  the  forms 
Of  the  crowned  hills  beyond,  the  dwellings 

of  the  storms. 

[heap 

Yet,  what  avails  it,  it  each  moss-grown 
Still  on  the  waste  its  lonely  vigils  keep, 
Guarding  the  dust  which  slumbers  well 

beneath  [season's  breath  ? 

(Nor  needs  -such  care)  from  each  cold 
Where  is  the  voice  to  tell  their  tale  who  rest, 
Thus  rudely  pillowed,  on  the  desert's  breast? 
Doth  the  sword  sleep  beside  them  ? — Hath 

there  been 

A  sound  of  battle  "midst  the  silent  scene 
Where  now  the  flocks  repose?  did  the 

scythed  car 

Here  reap  its  harvest  in  the  ranks  of  war  ? 
And  rise  these  piles  in  memory  of  the  slain, 
And  the  red  combat  of  the  mountain-plain  ? 

It  may  be  thus  :  the  vestiges  of  strife, 
Around  yet  lingering,  mark  the  steps  of  life, 
And  the  rude  arrow's  barb  remains  to  tell 
How  by  its  stroke  perchance  the  mighty  fell, 
To  be  forg6tten.    Vain  the  warrior's  pride, 
The  chieftain's  power — they  had  no  bard, 

and  died.  [sphere, 

But  other  scenes,  from  their  untroubled 
Th'  eternal  stars  of  night  have  witnessed 

here. 

There  stands  an  altar  of  unsculptured  stone, 
Far  on  the  moor,  a  thing  of  ages  gone, 
Propped  on-  its  granite  pillars,  whence  the 

rains, 
And  pure  bright  dews,   have  laved    the 

crimson  stains 
Left  by  dark  rites  of  blood :  for  here,  of 

yore, 

When  the  bleak  waste  a  robe  of  forest  wore, 
And  many  a  crested  oak,  which  now  lies  low, 
Waved  its  wild  wreath  of  sacred  mistletoe ; 
Here,  at  dim  midnight,  through  the  haunted 

shade,  [played, 

On  Druid  harps  the  quivering  moonbeam 
And  spells  were  breathed,  that  filled  the 

deepening  gloom, 

With  the  pale  shadowy  people  of  the  tomb. 
Or,  haply,  torches  waving  through  the  night, 
Bade  the  red  cairn-fires  blaze  from  every 

height. 


Like  battle-signals,  whose  unearthly  gleams 
Threw  o'er  the  desert's  hundred  hills  and 

streams 

A  savage  grandeur ;  while  the  starry  skies 
Rung  with  the  peal  of  mystic  harmonies, 
As  the  loud  harp  its  deep-toned  hymns  sent 

forth  [of  the  North. 

To  the  storm-ruling  powers,  the  war-gods 

But  wilder  sounds  were  there :  th'  im- 
ploring cry, 

That  woke  the  forest's  echo  in  reply, 
But  not  the  heart's  1 — Unmoved  the  wizard 

train 
Stood  round  their  human  victim,  and  in 

vain  [glance 

His  prayer  for  mercy  rose ;  in  vain  his 
Looked  up,  appealing  to  the  blue  expanse, 
Where,  in  their  calm  immortal  beauty, 

shone  [fainter  moan, 

Heaven's  cloudless  orbs.    With  faint  and 
Bound  on  the  shrine  of  sacrifice  he  lay, 
Till,  drop  by  drop,  life's  current  ebbed  away ; 
Till  rock  and  turf  grew  deeply,  darkly  red, 
And  the  pale  moon  gleamed  paler  on  the 

dead.  [stillness  dwells 

Have  such  things  been,  and  here  ?—  where 
'Midst  the  rude  barrows  and  the  moorland 

swells,  [time 

Thus  undisturbed?— Oh  !  long  the  gulf  of 
Hath  clovjd  in  darkness  o'er  those  days  of 

crime, 

Andvearth  no  vestige  of  their  path  retains, 
Save  such  as  these,  which  strew  her  loneliest 

plains  [doom, 

With  records  of  man's  conflicts  and  his 
His  spirit  and  his  dust — the  altar  and  the 

tomb. 

But  ages  rolled  away :    and    England 
stood,  '[flood, 

With  her  proud  banner  streaming  o'er  the 
And  with  a  lofty  calmness  in  her  eye, 
And  regal  in  collected  majesty, 
To  breast  the  storm  of  battle.    Every  breeze 
Bore  sounds  of  triumph  o'er  her  own  blue 
seas ;  [drank 

And  other  lands,  redeemed  and  joyous, 
The  life-blood  of  her  heroes,  as  they  sank 
On  the  red  fields  they  won  ;  whose  wild 

flowers  wave 
Now,  in  luxuriant  beauty,  o'er  their  grave. 

'Twas  then  the  captives  of  Britannia's  wax 

Here,  for  their  lovely  southern  climes  afar, 

In    bondage    pined ;    the    spell-deluded 

throng  [long 

Dragged  at  Ambition '«  chariot  wheels  so 


DARTMOOR. 


117 


To  die — because  a  despot  could  not  clasp 
A  sceptre,  fitted  to  his  boundless  grasp  I 

Yes  I  they  whose  march  had  rocked  the 
ancient  thrones  [tones 

And  temples  of  the  world  ;  the  deepening 
Of  whose  advancing  trumpet,  from  repose 
Had  startled  nations,  wakening  to  their 
woes,  [some  whose  dreams 

Were   prisoners   here. — And    there   were 
Were  of  sweet  homes,  by  chainless  moun- 
tain streams,  [strain, 
And  of  the  vine-clad  hills,  and  many  a 
And  festal  melody  of  Loire  or  Seine, 
And  of  those  mothers  who  had  watched 
and  wept,  [slept, 
When  on  the  field  th'  unsheltered  conscript 
Bathed  with  the  midnight  dews.  And  some 

were  there, 

Of  sterner  spirits,  hardened  by  despair ; 
Who,  in  their  dark  imaginings,  again 
Fired  the  rich  palace  and  the  stately  fane, 
Drank  in  their  victim's  shriek,  as  music's 

breath, 
And  lived  o'er  scenes,  the  festivals  of  death  1 

And  there  was  mirth,  too  ! — strange  and 

savage  mirth, 

More  fearful  far  than  all  the  woes  of  earth ! 
The  laughter  of  colfi  hearts,  and  scoffs  that 

spring  [thing, 

From  minds  for  which  there  is  no  sacred 
And    transient  bursts  of  fierce,  exulting 

glee— 
The  lightning's  flash  upon  its  blasted  tree  1 

But  still,  howe'er  the  soul's  disguise  were 

worn, 

If,  from  wild  revelry,  or  haughty  scorn, 
Or  buoyant  hope,  it  won  an  outward  show, 
Slight  was  the  mask,  and  all  beneath  it — 

woe. 

Yet,  was  this  all  ? — Amidst  the  dungeon- 
gloom,  [doom, 
The  void,   the  stillness,  of  the  Captive's 
Were  there  no  deeper  thoughts? — And  that 
dark  power,  [hour, 
To  whonv  guilt  owes  one  late,  but  dreadful 
The  might>  debt  through  years  of  crime 

delayed, 

But,  as  the  grave's,  inevitably  paid  ; 
Came  he  not  thither,  in  his  burning  force, 
The    Lord,   the   tamer  of    dark  souls — 
Remorse  ? 

[and  sky, 

Yes  !  as  the  night  calls  forth  from  sea 
From  breeze  and  wood,  a  solemn  harmony, 


Lost,  when  the  swift,  triumphant  wheels  of 
day,  [way : 

In  light  and  sound,  are  hurrying  on  their 
Thus,  from  the  deep  recesses  of  the  heart, 
The   voice  which  sleeps,  but  never  dies, 

might  start, 

Called  up  by  solitude,  each  nerve  to  thrill 
With  accents  heard  not,  save  when  all  is 
still  1 

The  voice,  inaudible,  when  Havoc's  train 
Crushed  the  red  vintage  of  devoted  Spain  ; 
Mute,  when  sierras  to  the  war-whoop  rung, 
And  the  broad  light  of  conflagration  sprung 
From  the  South 's  marble  cities ; — hushed, 

'midst  cries 

That  told  the  heavens  of  mortal  agonies  ; 
But  gathering  silent  strength,  to  wake,  at 

last, 
In  concentrated  thunders  of  the  past  I 

And  there,  perchance,  some  long-bewil- 
dered mind, 

Tom  from  its  lowly  sphere,  its  path  confined 
Of  village  duties,  in  the  alpine  glen, 
Where  nature  cast  its  lot  'midst  peasant- 
men  ;  [blent 
Drawn  to  that  vortex,  whose  fierce  ruler 
The  earthquake-po'verof  each  wild  element, 
To  lend  the  tide  which  bore  his  throne  on 

high 

One  impulse  more  of  desperate  energy ; 
Might,  when  the  billow's  awful  rush  was 

o'er, 
Which  tossed  its  wreck  upon  the  storm-beat 

shore, 
Won  from  its  wanderings  past  by  suffering 

tried, 

Searched  by  remorse,  by  anguish  purified, 
Have  fixed  at  length  its   troubled  hopes 

and  fears 
On  the  far  world,  seen  brightest  through 

our  tears  1 

And,  in  that  hour  of  triumph  or  despair, 
Whose  secrets  all  must  learn — but  none 

declare, 

When,  of  the  things  to  come,  a  deeper  sense 
Fills  the  dim  eye  of  trembling  penitence, 
Have  turned  to  Him,  whose  bow  is  in  the 

cloud, 

Around  life's  limits  gathering,  as  a  shroud ; 
The  fearful  mysteries  of   the  heart  who 

knows, 
And,  by  the  tempest',  calls  it  to  repose  I 

Who  visited  that  death-bed  ?— Who  can 

tell  [dwell. 

Its  brief  *ad  tale,  on  which  the  soul  might 


tie 


DARTMOOR. 


And  learn  immortal  lessons? — Who  beheld 
The  struggling  hope,  by  shame,  by  doubt 

repelled — 

The  agony  of  prayer — the  bursting  tears— 
The  dark  remembrances  of  guilty  years, 
Crowding  upon  the  spirit  in  their  might  ? — 
He,  through  the  storm  who  looked,  and 

there  was  light  I 

[tuous  breast, 

That  scene  is  closed  I — that  wild,  tumul- 
With  all  its  pangs  and  passions,  is  at  rest  1 
He  too  is  fallen,  the  master-power  of  strife, 
Who  woke  those  passions  to  delirious  life ; 
ft.nd  days,  prepared  a  brighter  course  to 

run, 
Unfold  their  buoyant  pinions  to  the  sun  1 

It  is  a  glorious  hour  when  Spring  goes 

forth  [North, 

O'er  the  bleak  'mountains  of  the  shadowy 
And  with  one  radiant  glance,  one  magic 

breath,  [death  ; 

Wakes  all  things  lovely  from  the  sleep  of 
While  the  glad  voices  of  a  thousand  streams, 
Bursting  their  bondage,  triumph  in  her 

beams*! 

[the  mind, 

But  Peace  hath  nobler  changes  !  O'er 
The  warm  and  living  spirit  of  mankind, 
Her   influence    breathes,    and    bids    the 

blighted  heart, 

To  life  and  hope  from  desolation  start  I 
She  with  a  look  dissolves  the  captive's  chain, 
Peopling  with  beauty  widowed  homes  again ; 
Around  the  mother,  in  her  closing  years, 
Gathering  her  sons  once  more,  and  from 

the  tears 

Of  the  dim  past,  but  winning  purer  light, 
To  make  the  present  more  serenely  bright. 

Nor  rests    that  influence  here.     From 

clime  to  clime, 

In  silence  gliding  with  the  stream  of  time, 
Still  doth  it  spread,  borne  onwards,  as  a 

breeze  [seas ; 

With  healing  on  its  wings,  o'er  isles  and 
And,  as  Heaven's  breath  called  forth,  with 

genial  power,  [flower  ; 

From  the  dry  wand,   the  almond's  living 
So  doth  its  deep-felt  charm  in  secret  move 
The  coldest  heart  to  gentle  deeds  of  love  ; 
While  round    its   pathway  nature   softly 

glows, 
And  the  wide  desert  blossoms  as  the  rose.. 

Yes  I.  let  the  wsste  lift  up  the  ex»i\»ing 

voice  I 
Let  the  far-echoing  solitude  rejoice  I 


And  thou,  lone  moor  I  where  no  blithe 

reaper's  song 

E'er  lightly  sped  the  summer  hours  along, 
Bid  thy  wild  rivers,  from  each  mountain- 
source 

Rushing  in  joy,  make  music  on  their  course  I 
Thou,  whose  sole  records  of  existence  mark 
The  scene  of  barbarous  rites,  in  ages  dark, 
And  of  some  nameless  combat ;  Hope's 

bright  eye 

Beams  o'er  thee  in  the  light  of  prophecy  ! 
Yet  shalt  thou  smile,  by  busy  culture  drest. 
And  the  rich  harvest  wave  upon  thy  breast : 
Yet  shall  thy  cottage-smoke  at  dewy  morn, 
Rise,  in  blue  wreaths,  aoove  the  flowering 
thorn,  [bosomed  spire 

And    'midst  thy  hamlet-shades,  the  em- 
Catch  from  deep-kiudling  heavens  their 
earliest  fire. 

Thee  too  that  hour  shall  bless,  the  balmy 

close 

Of  labour's  day,  the  herald  of  repose, 
Which    gathers    hearts   in  peace ;   while 

social  mirth  [hearth  : 

Basks  in  the  blaze  of  each  free  village- 
While  peasant-songs  are  on  the  joyous 

gales,  [all  her  vales, 

And  merry  England's  voice  floats  up  from 
Yet  are  there  sweeter  sounds  ;  and  thou 

shalt  hear  [dear. 

Such  as  to  Heaven's  immortal  hosts  are 
Oh  I  if  there  still  be  melody  on  earth, 
Worthy  the  sacred  bowers  where  man  drew 

birth 

When  angel-steps  their  paths  rejoicing  trod, 
And  the  air  trembled  with  the  breath  ol 

God; 

It  lives  in  those  soft  accents,  to  the  sky 
Borne  from  the  lips  of  stainless  infancy, 
When  holy  strains,  from  life's  pure  fount 

which  sprung,  [tongue 

Breathed  with  deep  reverence,  falter  on  hi.' 

And  such  shall  be  thy  music,  when  the 

cells,  [dwells, 

Where  guilt,  the  child  of  hopeless  misery, 
(And,  to  wild  strength  by  desperation 

wrought,  [thought,) 

In  silence  broods  o'er  many  a  fearful 
Resound  to  pity's  voice  ;  and  childhood 

thence,  [cence, 

Ere  the  cold  blight  hath  reached  its  inno- 
Ere  that  soft  rose-bloom  of  the  soul  be  fled, 
Which  vice  but  breathes  on,  and  its  hues 

are  dead  ; 

Shall  at  the  call  press  forward,  to  be  made 
A  glorious  offering,  meet  for  Him  who  said. 


WELSH  MELODIES. 


119 


".Mercy  not  sacrifice  1"  and  when,  of  old, 
Cloudi  of  rich  incense  from  his  altars  rolled, 
Dispersed  the  smoke  of  perfumes,  and  laid 
bare  [there ! 

The  heart's  deep  folds,  to  read  its  homage 

When  some  crowned  conqueror,  o'er  a 

trampled  world, 

His  banner,  shadowing  nations,  hath  un- 
furled, 

And,  like  those  visitations  which  deform 
Nature  for  centuries,  hath  made  the  storm 
His  path-way  to  Dominion's  lonely  sphere, 
Silence  behind — before  him,  flight  and  fear; 
When  kingdoms  rock  beneath  his  rushing 

wheels, 

Till  each  fair  isle  the  mighty  impulse  feels, 
And  earth  is  moulded  but  by  one  proud  will, 
And  sceptred  realms  wear  fetters,  and  are 

still  ; 

Shall  the  free  soul  of  song  bow  down  to  pay 
The  earthquake  homage  on  its  baleful  way  ? 
Shall  the  glad  harp  send  up  exulting  strains 
O'er  burning  cities  and  forsaken  plains  ? 
And  shall  no  harmony  of  softer  close, 
Attend  the  stream  of  mercy  as  it  flows, 
And,  mingling  with  the  murmur  of  its  wave, 
Bless  the  green  shores  its  gentle  currents 
lave? 

Oh  I  there  are  loftier  themes,  for  him, 

whose  eyes 

Have  searched  the  depths  of  life's  realities, 
Than  the  red  battle,  or  the  trophied  car, 
Wheeling  the  monarch-victor  fast  and  far ; 


There  are  more  noble  strains  than  those 

which  swell 
The  triumphs  Ruin  may  suffice  to  tell  I 

Ye  Prophet-bards,  who  sat  in  elder  days 
Beneath  the  palms  of  Judah  I   ye  whose 

lays 
With  torrent  rapture,  from  their  source  on 

high, 

Burst  in  the  strength  of  immortality ! 
Oh  1  not  alone,  those  haunted  groves  among, 
Of  conquering  hosts,  of  empires  crushed, 

ye  sung, 

But  of  that  Spirit,  destined  to  explore, 
With  the  bright  day-spring,  every  distant 

shore, 

To  dry  the  tear,  to  bind  the  broken  reed, 
To  Make  the  home  of  peace  in  hearts  that 

bleed; 
With  beams  of  hope  to  pierce  the  dungeon's 

gloom, 
And  pour  eternal  star-light  o'er  the  tomb. 

And  blessed  and  hallowed  be  its  haunts ! 

for  there  [despair  1— 

Hath  man's  high  soul  been  rescued  from 
There  hath  th'  immortal  spark  for  heaven 

been  nursed, —  [burst, 

There  from  the  rock  the  springs  of  hie  have 
Quenchless  and  pure  1  and  holy  thoughts, 

that  rise,  [thies — 

Warm  from  the  source  of  human  sympa- 
Where'er  its  path  of  radiance  may  be 

traced, 
Shall  find  their  temple  in  the  silent  waste. 


WELSH    MELODIES. 

1832. 

THE  HARP  OF  WALES. 

INTRODUCTORY  STANZAS,    INSCRIBED  TO  THE  RUTHIN   WELSH   LITERARV   SOCIETY. 

HARP  of  the  mountain-land  I  sound  forth  again 
As  when  the  foaming  Hirlas  horn  was  crowned, 
And  warrior  hearts  beat  proudly  to  the  strain, 

And  the  bright  mead  at  Owain's  feast  went  round : 
Wake  with  the  spirit  and  the  power  of  yore  I 
Harp  of  the  ancient  hills !  be  heard  once  more  I 

Thy  tones  are  not  to  cease  I    The  Roman  cam> 
O'er  the  blue  waters  with  his  thousand  oars 

Through  Mona's  oaks  he  sent  UK  wasting  flaflft  ; 
The  Druid  shrines  lay  prostrate  on  our  shores  : 

Ml  gave  their  ashes  to  the  wind  and  sea — 

Ring  out,  thou  harp !  he  could  not  silence  the* 


123  WELSH  MELODIES. 

Thy  tones  are  not  to  cease  I    The  Saxon  passed, 
His  banners  floated  on  Eryri's  gales  ; 

But  thou  wert  heard  above  the  trumpet's  blast, 
E'en  when  his  towers  rose  loftiest  o'er  the  vales  I 

Tkine  was  the  voice  that  cheered  the  brave  and  free ; 

They  had  their  hills,  their  chainless  hearts,  and  thea. 

Those  were  dark  years  I—They  saw  the  valiant  fall, 
The  rank  weeds  gathering  round  the  chieftain's  board, 

The  hearth  left  lonely  in  the  ruined  hall — 
Yet  power  was  thine— -a.  gift  in  every  chord  I 

Call  back  that  spirit  to  the  days  of  peace, 

Thou  noble  harp  1  thy  tones  are  not  to  cease ! 


DRUID  CHORUS  ON  THE  LANDING  OF  THE  ROMANS 

BY  the  dread  and  viewless  powers 

Whom  the  storms  and  seas  obey, 
From  the  Dark  Isle's*  mystic  bowers, 

Romans !  o'er  the  deep  away  1 
Think  ye,  'tis  but  nature's  gloom 

O'er  our  shadowy  coast  which  broods  ? 
By  the  altar  and  the  tomb, 

Shun  these  haunted  solitudes  I 

Know  ye  Mona's  awful  spells? 

She  the  rolling  orbs  can  stay  1 
She  the  mighty  grave  compels 

Back  to  yield  its  fettered  prey,  I 
Fear  ye  not  the  lightning-stroke  ? 

Mark  ye  not  the  fiery  sky  ? 
Hence ! — around  our  central  oak 

Gods  are  gathering — Romans,  fly  i 


THE  GREEN  ISLES  OF  OCEAN.f 

WHERE  are  they,  those  green  fairy  islands,  reposing 

In  sunlight  and  beauty  on  ocean's  calm  breast  ? 
What  spirit,  the  things  which  are  hidden  disclosing, 

Shall  point  the  bright  way  to  their  dwellings  of  rest  ? 
Oh  !  lovely  they  rose  on  the  dreams  of  past  ages, 

The  mighty  have  sought  them,  undaunted  in  faith ; 
But  the  land  hath  been  sad  for  warriors  and  sages, 

For  the  guide  to  those  realms  of  the  blessed  is  death. 


*Ynys  Dywyll,  or  the  Dark  luland — an  ancient  name  for  Anglesey. 

f  The  "Green  Islands  of  Ocean,"  _or  "Green  Spots  of  the  Floods,"  failed  in  the  Triads 
"Gwerddonan  Llion,"  (respecting  which  some  remarkable  superstitions  have  been  preserved  in 
Wales,)  were  supposed  to  be  the  abode  of  the  Fair  Family,  or  souls  of  the  virtuous  Druids,  who 
could  not  enter  the  Christian  heaven,  but  were  permitted  to  enjoy  this  paradise  of  their  own. 
Gaf ran,  a  distinguished  British  chieftain  of  the  fifth  century,  went  on  a  voyage  with  his  family  to 
discover  these  islands  ;  but  they  were  never  heard  of  afterwards.  This  event,  the  voyage  of 
Merddin  Emrys  with  his  twelve  bards,  and  the  expedition  of  Madoc,  were  called  the  three  losses 
by  disappearance  of  the  Island  of  Britain. — Vidt  W.  O.  PUGHXS'  Cambrian  Biography:  also 
Cambro-  Briton,  vol.  L  p  124. 


WELSH  MELODIES. 

Where  are  they,  the  high-minded  children  of  glory, 

Who  steerea  for  those  distant  green  spots  on  the  wave  ? 
To  the  w<nds  of  the  ocean  they  left  their  wild  story, 

In.  the  fields  of  their  country  they  found  not  a  grave. 
Perchance  they  repose  where  the  summer-breeze  gathers 

From  the  flowers  of  each  vale  immortality's  breath  ; 
But  their  steps  shall  be  ne'er  on  the  hills  of  their  fathers— 

For  the  guide  to  those  realms  of  the  blessed  is  death. 


THE  SEA-SONG  OF  GAFRAN. 

WATCH  ye  well !    The  moon  is  shrouded 

On  her  bright  throne ; 
Storms  are  gathering,  stars  are  clouded, 

Waves  make  wild  moan. 
Tis  no  night  of  hearth-fires  glowing, 
And  gay  songs  and  wine-cups  flowing ; 
But  of  winds,  in  darkness  blowing, 

O'er  seas  unknown  I 

la  the  dwellings  of  our  fathers, 

Round  the  glad  blaze; 
Now  the  festive  circle  gathers 

With  harps  and  lays  ; 
Now  the  rush-strewn  halls  are  ringing, 
Steps  are  bounding,  bards  are  singing, 
—Ay,  the  hour  to  all  is  bringing 

Peace,  joy,  or  praise 

Save  to  us,  our  night-watch  keeping, 

Storm-winds  to  brave, 
While  the  very  sea-bird  sleeping 

Rests  in  its  cave ! 

Think  of  us  when  hearts  are  beaming. 
Think  of  us  when  mead  is  streaming, 
Ye,  of  whom  our  souls  are  dreaming 

On  the  dark  wave  I 


THE  HIRLAS  HORN. 

FfLL  high  the  blue  hirias,  *  that  shines  like  the  wave, 

When  sunbeams  are  bright  on  the  spray  of  the  sea : 
And  bear  thou  the  rich  foaming  mead  to  the  brave, 

The  dragons  of  battle,  the  sons  of  the  free ! 
To  those  from  whose  spears,  in  the  shock  of  the  fight,- 

A  beam,  like  heaven's  lightning,  flashed  over  the  field! ', 
To  those  who  came  rushing  as  storms  in  their  might, 

Who  have  shivered  the  helmet,  and  cloven  the  shidd ; 
The  sound  of  whose  strife  was  like  oceans  afar, 
When  lances  were  red  from  the  harvest  of  war. 

Fill  high  the  blue  hirias !    O  cup-bearer,  fill 
For  the  lords  of  the  field  in  their  festival's  hour, 

And  let  the  mead  foam,  like  the  stream  of  the  hill 
That  bursts  o'er  the  rock  in  the  pride  of  its  power : 

*  Hirias,  from  kit,  long,  zndglas,  blue  or  attire. 


122  WELSH  MELODIES. 

Praise,  praise  to  the  mighty,  fill  high  the  smooth  horn 
Of  honour  and  mirth,  for  the  conflict  is  o'er : 

And  round  let  the  golden-tipped  hirlas  be  borne 
To  the  lion-defenders  of  Gwynedd's  fair  shore, 

Who  nlshed  to  the  field  where  the  glory  was  won. 

As  eagles  that  soar  from  their  cliffs  to  the  sun. 

Fill  higher  the  hirlas !  forgetting  not  those 

Who  shared  its  bright  draught  in  the  days  that  are  fled  ! 
Though  cold  on  their  mountains  the  valiant  repose, 

Their  lot  shall  be  lovely — renown  to  the  dead  1 
While  harps  in  the  hall  of  the  feast  shall  be  strung, 

While  regal  Eryri  with  snow  shall  be  crowned — 
So  long  by  the  bards  shall  their  battles  be  sung, 

And  the  heart  of  the  hero  shall  burn  at  the  sound. 
The  free  winds  of  Maelor*  shall  swell  with  their  name, 
And  Owain's  rich  hirlas  be  filled  to  their  fame. 


THE  HALL  OF  CYNDDYLAN. 

THE  Hall  of  Cynddylan  is  gloomy  to-night ; 
I  weep,  for  the  grave  has  extinguished  its  light ; 
The  beam  of  the  lamp  from  its  summit  is  o'er, 
The  blaze  of  its  hearth  shall  give  welcome  no  more  1 

The  Hall  of  Cynddylan  is  voiceless  and  still, 
The  sound  of  its  harpings  hath  died  on  the  hill  1 
Be  silent  for  ever,  thou  desolate  scene, 
Nor  let  e'en  an  echo  recall  what  bath  been. 

The  Hall  of  Cynddylan  is  lonely  and  bare, 

No  banquet,  no  guest,  not  a  footstep  is  there  I 

Oh  1  where  are  the  warriors  who  circled  its  board  ? — 

The  grass  will  soon  wave  where  the  mead-cup  was  poured ! 

The  Hall  of  Cynddylan  is  loveless  to-night, 
Since  he  is  departed  whose  smile  made  it  bright  1 
I  mourn ;  but  the  sigh  of  my  soul  shall  be  brief, 
The  pathway  is  short  to  the  grave  of  my  chief  I 


THE  LAMENT  OF  LLYWARCH  HEN, 

[Llywarch  Hen,  or  Llywarch  the  Aged,  a  celebrated  bard  and  chief  of  the  times  of  Arthur, 
was  Prince  of  Argoed,  supposed  to  be  a  part  of  the  present  Cumberland.  Having  sustained  the 
loss  of  his  patrimony,  and  witnessed  the  fall  of  most  of  his  sons,  in  the  unequal  contest  maintained 
by  the  North  Britons  against  the  growing  power  of  the  Sa  tons,  Llywarch  was  compelled  to  fly. 
from  his  country,  and  seek  refuge  in  Wales.  He  there  found  an  asylum  for  some  time  in  the  resi- 
dence of  Cynddylan,  Prince_  of  Powys,  whose  fall  he  pathetically  laments  in  one  of  his  poems. 
These  are  still  extant ;  and  his  elegy  on  old  age  and  the  loss  of  his  sons,  is  remarkable  for  its  sim- 
plicity and  beauty.— See  Cambrian  Biography,  and  OWEN'S  Heroic  Eltgiet  a*d  etktrpotms  jj 
LlywarcH.  Hen.} 

THE  bright  hours  return,  and  the  blue  sky  is  ringing 
With  song,  and  the  hills  are  all  mantled  with  bloom ; 
But  fairer  than  aught  which  the  summer  is  bringing, 
The  beauty  and  youth  gone  to  people  the  tomb  I 

*  Maelor,  pait  of  the  counties  of  Denbigh  and  Flint,  according  to  tht  modern  division. 


WELSH  MELODIES.  128 

Oh  !  why  should  I  live  to  hear  music  resounding, 
Which  cannot  awake  ye,  my  lovely,  my  brave  ? 
Why  smile  the  waste  flowers,  my  sad  footsteps  surrounding? 
— My  sons  1  they  but  clothe  the  green  turf  of  your  grave  1 

Alone  on  the  rocks  of  the  stranger  I  linger, 
My  spirit  all  wrapt  in  the  past  as  a  dream  1 
Mine  ear  hath  no  joy  in  the  voice  of  the  singer, 
Mine  eye  sparkles  not  to  the  sunlight's  glad  beam  ; 
Yet,  yet  I  live  on,  though  forsaken  and  weeping  I 
— O  grave  1  why  refuse  to  the  aged  thy  bed, 
When  valour's  high  heart  on  thy  bosom  is  sleeping, 
When  youth's  glorious  flower  is  gone  down  to  the  dead  1 

Fair  were  ye,  my  sons  !  and  all  kingly  your  bearing, 

As  on  to  the  fields  of  your  glory  ye  trode  1 

Each  prince  of  my  race  the  bright  golden  chain  wearing, 

Each  eye  glancing  fire,  shrouded  now  by  the  sod  1* 

I  weep  when  the  blast  of  the  trumpet  is  sounding, 

Which  rouses  ye  not,  O  my  lovely  1  my  brave  1 

When  warriors  and  chiefs  to  their  proud  steeds  are  bounding, 

I  turn  from  heaven's  light,  for  it  smiles  on  your  grave  I 


GRUFYDD'S  FEAST. 

["  Grufydd  ab  Rhys  ab  Tewdwr,  having  resisted  the  English  successfully  in  the  time  of  Stephen, 
and  at  last  obtained  from  them  an  honourable  peace,  made  a  great  feast  at  his  palace  in  Ystrad 
Tywi  to  celebrate  this  event.  To  th'S  feast,  which  was  continued  for  forty  days,  he  invited  all  who 
would  come  In  peace  from  Gvtynedd,  Poviyt  the  Deftevbartk,  Glamorgan,  and  the  marches. 
Against  the  appointed  time  he  prepared  all  kinds  of  delicious  viands  and  liquors  ;  with  every 
entertainment  of  vocal  ,and  instrumental  song ;  thus '  patronizing  the  poets  and  musicians.  He 
encouraged,  too,  all  sorts  of  representations  and  manly  games,  and  afterwards  sent  away  all  those 
who  had  excelled  in  them  with  honourable  gifts."—  Cambrian  Biography.} 

LET  the  yellow  mead  shine  for  the  sons  of  the  brave, 
By  the  bright  festal  torches  around  us  that  wave  1 
Set  open  the  gates  of  the  prince's  wide  hall,    • 
And  hang  up  the  chief's  ruddy  spear  on  the  wall ! 

There  is  peace  in  the  land  we  have  battled  to  save : 
Then  spread  ye  the  feast,  bid  the  wine-cup  foam  high,f 
That  those  may  rejoice  who  have  feared  not  to  die  1 

Let  the  horn  whose  loud  blast  gave  the  signal  for  fight, 
With  the  bee's  sunny  nectar  now  sparkle  in  light  \% 
Let  the  rich  draught  it  offers  with  gladness  be  crowned, 
For  the  strong  hearts  in  combat  that  leaped  at  its  sound  I 
Like  the  billows'  dark  swell  was  the  path  of  their  might, 
Red,  red  as  their  blood,  fill  the  wine-cup  on  high, 
That  those  may  rejoice  who  have  feared  not  to  die  I 

And  wake  ye  the  children  of  song  from  their  dreams, 
On  Maelor's  wild  hills  and  by  "Dyfed's  fair  streams  1$ 


*The  golden  rhain,  as  a  badge  of  honour,  worn  by  heroes,  Is  frequently  alluded  to  in  theworki 
'at  the  ancient  British  bards. 

t  Wine,  as  well  as  mead,  Is  frequently  mentioned  in  the  poems  of  the  ancient  British  bards. 

t  The  horn  was  used  for  two  purposes— to  sound  the  alarm  in  war,  and  to  drink  the  mead 
»t  feasts. 

I  Dyfed  (said  to  signify  a  laad  abounding  with  streams  of  water),  the  modern  Pembrokeshire. 


124  WELSH  MELODIES. 

Bid  them  haste  with  those  strains  of  the  lofty  and  free, 
Which  shall  float  down  the  waves  of  long  ages  to  be. 

Sheath  the  sword  which  hath  given  them  unperishing  theme 
And  pour  the  bright  mead  :  let  the  wine-cup  foam  high, 
That  those  may  rejoice  who  have  feared  not  to  die  I 


THE  CAMBRIAN   IN  AMERICA. 

WHEN  the  last  flush  of  eve  is  dying 

On  boundless  lakes  afar  that  shine ; 
When  winds  amidst  the  palms  are  sighing, 
.  And  fragrance  breathes  from  every  pine  : 
When  stars  through  cypress  boughs  are  gleaming; 

And  fireflies  wander  bright  and  free. 
Still  of  thy  harps,  thy  mountains  dreaming, 

My  thoughts,  wild  Cambria !  dwell  with  thee  J 
Alone  o'er  green  savannas  roving, 

Where  some  broad  stream  in-silence  flows, 
Or  through  the  eternal  forests  moving, 

One  only  home  my  spirit  knows ! 
Sweet  land,  whence  memory  ne'er  hath  parted  I 

To  thee  on  sleep's  light  wing  I  fly ; 
But  happier  could  the  weary-hearted 

Look  on  his  own  blue  hills  and  die  I 


THE  FAIR  ISLE.* 

FOR  THE  MELODY  CALLED  THB  "  WELSH  GROUND." 

-(The  Bard  of  the  Palace,  under  the  ancient  Welsh  Princes,  always  accompanied  the  army 
when  it  marched  into  an  enemy's  country ;  and,  while  it  was  preparing  for  battle  or  dividing  the 
spoils,  he  performed  an  ancient  song,  called  Unbennaeth  Pry  Jain,  the  Monarchy  of  Britain.  It 
has  been  conjectured  that  this  poem  referred  to  the  tradition  of  the  Welsh,  that  the  whole  island 
had  once  been  possessed  by  their  ancestors,  who  were  driven  into  a  corner  of  It  by  their  Saxon 
invaders.  When  the  prince  had  received  his  share  of  the  spoils,  the  bard,  for  the  performance  of 
this  song,  was  rewarded  with  the  most  valuable  beast  that  remained. — See  JONES'S  Historieal 
Account  of  the  Welsh  Bards.} 

SONS  of  the  Fair  Isle !  forget  not  the  time 

Ere  spoilers  had  breathed  the  free  air  of  your  clime  : 

All  that  its  eagles  behold  in  their  flight 

Was  yours,  from  the  deep  of  each  storm-mantled  height, 

Though  from  your  race  that  proud  birthright  be  torn, 

Unquenched  is  the  spirit  for  monarchy  born. 


Darkly  though  clouds  may  hang  o'er  us  awhile, 
The  crown  shall  not  pass  from  the  Beautiful  Isle. 

Ages  may  roll  ere  your  children  regain 
The  land  for  which  heroes  have  perished  in  vain  , 
Yet  in  the  sound  of  your  names  shall  be  power, 
Around  her  still  gathering  in  glory's  full  hour. 
Strong  in  the  fame  jf  the  mighty  that  sleep, 
Your  Britain  shall  sit  on  the  throne  of  the  deep. 

•  Ynys  Prydaio  was  the  ancient  Welsn  name  of  Britain  and  signifies  fair  or  btautifsl  isle. 


WELSH  MELODIES. 


125 


CHORUS. 

Then  shall  their  spirits  rejoice  in  her  smile, 
Who  died  for  the  crown  of  the  Beautiful  Isle. 


TALIESIN'S  PROPHECY. 

f  A  prophecy  of  Taliesin  relating  to  the  Ancient  Britons  is  still  extant,  and. has  been  stitkinglj 
ined.    It  is  to  the  following  effect  :— 

"  Their  God  they  shall  worship, 
Their  language  they  shall  retain. 
Their  land  they  shall  lose, 
Except  wild  Wales."] 

A  VOICE  from  time  departed  yet  floats  thy  hills  among, 

0  Cambria  1  thus  thy  prophet  bard,  thy  Taliesin,  sung : 
"The  path  of  unborn  ages  is  traced.upon  my  soul, 

The  clouds  which  mantle  things  unseen  away  before  me  roll» 

A  light  the  depths  revealing  hath  o'er  my  spirit  passed, 

A  rushing  sound  from  days  to  be  swells  fitful  in  the  blast, 

And  tells  me  that  for  ever  shall  live  the  lofty  tongue 

To  which  the  harp  of  Mona's  woods  by  freedom's  hand,  was  strung. 

"  Green  island  of  the  mighty !»  I  see  thine  ancient  race 

Dnven  from  their  father's  realm  to  make  the  rocks  their  dwelling-place 

1  see  from  Uthyr'st  kingdom  the  sceptre  pass  away, 

And  many  a  line  of  bards  and  chiefs  and  princely  men  decay. 
But  long  as  Arvon's  mountains  shall  lift  their  sovereign  forms, 
And  wear  the  crown  to  which  is  given  dominion  o'er  the  storms, 
So  long,  their  empire  sharing,  shall  live  the  lofty  tongue 
To  which  the  harp  of  Mona's  woods  by  freedom's  hand  was  strung  I" 


OWEN  GLYNDWR'S  WAR-SONG. 


SAW  ye  the  blazing  star  ? 

The  heavens  looked  down  on  freedom's  war, 

And  lit  her  torch  on  high  1 
Bright  on  the  dragon's  crest  t 
It  tells  that  glory's  wing  shall  reit, 

When  warriors  meet  to  die  I 

Let  earth's  pale  tyrants  read  despair 

And  vengeance  in  its  flame  ; 
Hail  ye,  my  bards  !  the  omen  fair. 

Of  conquest  and  of  fame, 
And  swell  the  rushing  mountain  air 

With  songs  to  Glyndwr's  name.  I 


At  the  dead  hour  of  night, 

Marked  ye  how  each  majestic  height 

Burned  in  its  awful  beams  ? 
Red  shone  the  eternal  shows, 
And  all  the  land,  as  bright  it  rose, 

Was  full  of  glorious  dreams  I 

O  eagles  of  the  battle,  rise  1 

The  hope  of  Gwynedd  wakes ! 

It  is  your  banner  in  the  skies 

Through  each  dark  cloud  which  breRlts, 

And  mantles  with  triumphal  dyes 
Your  thousand  hills  and  lakes  ! 


*  Ynysy  Cedeirn,  or  Isle  of  the  Mighty — an  ancient  name  given  to  Britain. 

t  Uthyr  Pendragon,  king  of  Britain,  supposed  to  have  been  the  father  of  Arthur. 

$  Owen  Glyndwr  styled  himself  the  Dragon  ;  a  name  he  assumed  in  imitation  of  Uthyr,  whose 

victories  over  the  Saxons  were  foretold  by  the  appearance  of  a  star  with  a*  dragon  beneath, 

which  Uthyr  used  as  his  badge;,  and  on  that  account  it  became  a  favourite  one  wiih  the 

-— PSKNAKT. 


126 


WELSH  MELODIES. 


A  sound  is  on  the  breeze, 

A  murmur  as  of  swelling  seas  t 

The  Saxon  on  his  way  t 
Lo  !  spear  and  shield  and  lance, 
From  Deva's  waves  with  lightning  glance, 

Reflected  to  the  day  ! 

But  who  the  torrent-wave  compels 
A  conqueror's  chain  to  bear  ? 

Let  those  who  wake  the  soul  that  dwells 
On  our  free  winds,  beware  ! 

The  greenest  and  the  loveliest  dells 
May  be  the  lion's  lair  I 


Of  us  they  told,  the  seers, 

And  monarch  bards  of  elder  years, 

Who  walked  on  earth  as  powers ! 
And  in  their  burning  strains, 
A  spell  of  might  and  mystery  reigns, 

To  guard  our  mountain-towers  I 

— In  Snowdon's  caves  a  prophet  lay : 

Before  his  gifted  sight, 
The  march  of  ages  passed  away 

With  hero-footsteps  bright, 
But  proudest  in  that  long  array, 

Was  Glyndwr's  path  of  light ! 


PRINCE  MADOC'S  FAREWELL. 

WHY  lingers  my  gaze  where  the  last  hues  of  day 
On  the  hills  of  m;f  country  in  loveliness  sleep  ? 

Too  fair  is  the  sight  for  a  wanderer,  whose  way 
Lies  far  o'er  the  measureless  worlds  of  the  deep ! 

F.all,  shadows  of  twilight !  and  veil  the  green  shore, 

That  the  heart  of  the  mighty  may  waver  no  more  1 

Why  rise  on  my  thoughts,  ye  free  songs  of  the  land 
Where  the  harp's  lofty  soul  on  each  wild  wind  is  borne  ? 

Be  hushed,  be  forgotten  !  for  ne'er  shall  the  hand 
Of  minstrel  with  melody  greet  my  return. 

—No  1  no  1 — let  your  echoes  still  float  on  the  breeze, 

And  my  heart  shall  be  strong  for  the  conquest  of  seas  i 

'Tis  not  for  the  land  of  my  sires  to  give  birth 
Unto  bosoms  that  shrink  when  their  trial  is  nigh  ; 

Away  !  we  will  bear  over  ocean  and  earth 
A  name  and  a  spirit  that  never  shall  die. 

My  course  to  the  winds,  to  the  stars,  I  resign  ; 

But  my  soul's  quenchless  fire,  O  my  country  1  is  thine. 


CASWALLON'S  TRIUMPH. 

[Caswallon  (or  Cassivelaunus)  was  elected  to  the  supreme  command  of  the  Britons  (as 
recorded  in  the  Triads],  for  the  purpose  of  opposing  Csesar,  under  the  title  of  Elected  Chief  of 
Battle.  Whatever  impression  the  disciplined  legions  of  Rome  might  have  made  on  the  Britons  in 
the  first  Instance,  the  subsequent  departure  of  Caesar  they  considered  as  a  cause  of  triumph  ;  and 
it  is  stated  that  Caswallon  proclaimed  an  assembly  of  the  various  states  of  the  island,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  celebrating  that  event  by  feasting  and  public  rejoicing. — See  the  Cambrian  Biography.  ] 


FROM  the  glowing  southern  regions, 
Where  the  sun-god  makes  his  dwelling, 

Came  the  Roman's  crested  legions 
O'er  the  deep,  round  Britain  swelling. 

The  wave  grew  dazzling  as  he  passed, 

With  light  from  spear  and  helmet  cast ; 

And  sounds  in  every  rushing  blast 
Of  a  conqueror's  march  were  telling. 

But  his  eagle's  royal  pinion, 
Bowing  earth  beneath  its  glory, 

Could  not  shadow  with  dominion 
Our  wild  seas  and  mountains  hoary  I 


Back  from  their  cloudy  realm  it  flies, 

To  float  in  light  through  softer  skies  ; 

Oh  1  chainless  winds  of  heaven  arise  1 

Bear  a  vanquished  world  the  story  ! 

Lords  of  earth  !  to  Rome  returning, 

Tell  how  Britain  combat  wages, 
How  Caswallon 's  soul  is  burning 

When  the  storm  of  battle  rages  ! 
And  ye  that  shrine  high  deeds  in  song 
O  holy  and  immortal  throng  1 
The  brightness  of  his  name  prolong, 
As  a  torch  to  stream  through  ages  I 


WELSH  MELODIES. 


HOWEL'S  SONG. 


may  yet  be  traced  on  a  high  bill  near  Llangollen.] 


PRESS  on,  my  steed, !,  i  hear  the  swell 
Of  Valle  Crucis'  vesper-bell, 
Sweet  floating  from  the  holy  dell 

O'er  woods  and  waters  round. 
Perchance  the  maid  I  love,  e'en  now, 
From  Dinas  Bran's  majestic  brow, 
Looks  o'er  the  fairy  world  below, 

And  listens  to  the  sound  1 

I  feel  her  presence  on  the  scene  I 
The  summer  air  is  more  serene, 
The  deep  woods  wave  in  richer  green. 
The  wave  more  gently  flows  I 


O  fair  as  Ocean's  curling  foam  ! 
Lo  1  with  the  balmy  hour  I  come — 
The  hour  that  brings  the  wanderer  home, 
The  weary  to  repose  1 

Haste  I  on  each  mountain's  darkening  crest 
The  glow  hath  died,  the  shadows  rest, 
The  twilight  star  on  Deva's  breast 

Gleams  tremulously  bright ; 
Speed  for  Myfanwy's  bower  on  high  ! 
Though  scom  may  wound  me  from  her  eye, . 
Oh  i  better  by  the  sun  to  die, 

Than  live  in  rayless  night  f 


THE  MOUNTAIN  FIRES. 

["The  custom  retained  in  Wale*  of  lighting  fires  (Ceekertkf)  on  November  eve,  Is  said  to  be  a 
traditional  memorial  of  the  massacre  of  the  British  chiefs  by  Hengist,  on  Salisbury  plain.  Hie 
practice  is,  however,  of  older  date,  and  had  reference  originally  to  the  Allan  El-ved,  or  new- 
year.  " — Cambro-Briton, 

When  these  fires  are  kindled  on  the  mountains,  and  seen  through  the  darkness  of  a  stormy 
night,  casting  a  red  and  fitful  glare  over  heath  and  rock,  their  effect  is  strikingly  picturesque.] 


LIGHT  the  hills  I  till  heaven  is  glowing 

As  with  some  red  meteor's  rays  I 
Winds  of  night,  though  rudely  blowing, 

Shall  but  fan  the  beacon-blaze. 
Light  the  hills  1  till  flames  are  streaming 

From  Yr  Wyddfa's  sovereign  steep,* 
To  the  waves  round  Mona  gleaming, 

Where  the  Roman  tracked  the  deep ! 

Be  the  mountain  watch-fires  heightened, 
Pile  them  to  the  stormy  sky  I 

Till  each  torrent-wave  is  brightened, 
Kindling  as  it  rushes  by. 


Now  each  rock,  the  mist's  high  dwelling, 
Towers  in  reddening  light  sublime  ; 

Heap  the  flames  1  around  them  telling 
Tales  of  Cambria's  elder  time. 

Thus  our  sires,  the  fearless-hearted. 

Many  a  solemn  vigil  kept, 
When,  in  ages  long  departed, 

O'er  the  noble  dead  they  wept 
In  the  winds  we  hear  their  voices — 

"  Sons !  though  yours  a  brighter  lot, 
When  the  mountain-land  rejoices, 

Be  her  mighty  unforgot  1" 


ERYRI  WEN. 

{"  Snowdon  was  held  as  sacred  by  the  Ancient  Britons,  as  Parnassus  was  by  the  Greeks,  and 
Ida  by  the  Cretans.  Jtt  is  still  said,  that  whosoever  slept  upon  Snowdon  would  wake  inspired,  as 
much  as  if  he  had  taken  a  nap  on  the  hill  of  Apollo.  The  Welsh  had  always  the  strongest  attach- 
ment to  the  tract  of  Snowdon.  Our  princes  had,  In  addition  to  their  title,  that  ot*  Lord  cl 
Snowdon." — PBNNANT.] 


THEIRS  was  no  dream,  O  monarch  hill. 

With  heaven's  own  azure  crowned  1 
Who  called  thee— what  thou  shall  be  still, 

White  Snowdon  1 — faoty  ground. 


They  fabled  not,  thy  sons  who  told 
Of  the  dread  power  enshrined 

Within  thy  cloudy  mantle's  fold, 
And  on  thy  rushing  wind  1 


1  Yr  Wvddfa,  the  Welsh  name  ef  Snowdon.  said  to  meaa  the  consticwrmi  fine, 


128 


WELSH  MELODIES. 


It  shadowed  o'er  thy  silent  height, 

It  filled  thy  chainless  air, 
Deep  thoughts  of  majesty  and  might 

For  ever  breathing  there. 

Nor  hath  it  fled  1  the  awful  spell 

Yet  holds  unbroken  sway, 
As  when  on  that  wild  rock  it  fell 

Where  Merddin  Emyrs  lay  I 

Though  from  their  stormy  haunts  of  yore 
Thine  eagles  long  have  flown, 


As  proud  a  flight  the  soul  shall  soai 
.    Yet  from  thy  mountain-throne  I 

Pierce  then  the  heavens,  thou  hill  of  streams! 

And  make  the  snows  thy  crest  I 
The  sunlight  of  immortal  dreams 

Around  thee  still  shall  rest. 

Eryri  !*  temple  of  the  bard  1 

And  fortress  of  the  free  ! 
'Midst  rocks  which  heroes  died  to  guard, 

Their  spirit  dwells  with  thee  I 


CHANT  OF  THE  BARDS  BEFORE  THEIR  MASSACRE  BY  EDWARD  I 

RAISE  ye  the  sword  1  let  the  death-stroke  be  given ; 
Oh  !  swift  may  it  fall  as  the  lightning  of  heaven  I 
So  shall  our  spirits  be  free  as  our  strains— 
The  children  of  song  may  not  languish  in  chains  I 

Have  ye  not  trampled  our  country's  bright  crest  ? 
Are  heroes  reposing  in  death  on  her  breast  ? 
Red  with  their  blood  do  her  mountain-streams  flow, 
And  think  ye  that  still  we  would  linger  below  ? 

Rest,  ye  brave  dead  1  'midst  the  hills  of  your  sires, 
Ob  !  who  would  not  slumber  when  freedom  expires  ? 
Lonely  and  voiceless  your  halls  must  remain — 
The  children  of  song  may  not  breathe  in  the  chain  I 


THE  DYING  BARD'S  PROPHECY. 

"  All  is  not  lost — the  unconquerable  will 
And  courage  never  to  submit  or  yield."— MILTOM, 


THE  hall  of  harps  is  lone  to-night, 
And  cold  the  chieftain's  hearth  : 

It  hath  no  mead,  it  hath  no  light  ; 
No  voice  of  melody,  no  sound  of  mirth. 

The  bow  lies  broken  on  the  floor 
Whence  the  free  step  is  gone  ; 

The  pilgrim  turns  him  from  the  door, 
Where  minstrel-blood  hath  stained  the 
threshold  stone. 


"And  I,  too,  go  :  my  wound  is  de 

My  brethren  long  have  died  ; 
Yet,  ere  my  soul  grow  dark  with  sleep,- 

Winds  !  bear  the  spoiler  one  more  tone 
of  pride  1 

1  Bear  it  where,  on  his  battle-plain, 

Beneath  the  setting  sun, 
He  counts  my  country's  noble  slain  — 

Say  to  him  —  Saxon,  think  not  all  is  won. 


1 '  Thou  hast  laid  low  the  warrior's  head, 
The  minstrel's  chainless  hand  : 

Dreamer !  that  numberest  with  the  dead 
The  burning  spirit  of  the  mountain-land ! 

"  Think 'st   thou,    because  the  song  hath 
ceased, 

The  soul  of  song  is  flown  ? 
Think 'st  thou  it  woke  to  crown  the  feast, 

It  lived  beside  the  ruddy  hearth  alone? 

"  No  !  by  our  wrongs,  and  by  our  blood  I 

We  leave  it  pure  and  free  ; 
Though   hushed    awhile,    that    sounding 
flood 

Shall  roll  in  joy  through  ages  yet  to  be. 

"  We  leave  it  'midst  our  country's  woe- 

The  birthright  of  her  breast ; 
We  leave  it  as  we  leave  the  snow, 

Bright  and  eternal  on  Eryri's  crest. 


Emi,  Welsh  game  for  th*  Snocdon  trj 


WELSH  MELODIES.  129 


•  We  leave  It  with  our  fame  tb  dwell 

Upon  our  children's  breath ; 
Our  voice  in  theirs  through  time  shall  swell — 
The  bard  hath  gifts  of  prophecy  from 
death." 


He  dies ;  but  yet  the  mountains  stand, 
Yet  sweeps  the  torrent's  tide ; 

And  this  is  yet  Aiuurin's*  land- 
Winds  I  bear  the  spoiler  one  it  ore  tone 
of  pride  I 


THE  ROCK  OF  CADER  IDRIS. 

[It  Is  an  old  tradition  of  the  Welsh  bards,  that  on  the  summit  of  the  mountain  Cad  er  Idris  is 
en  excavation  resembling  a  couch ;  and  that  whoever  should  pass  a  night  in  that  hollow,  would  be 
(wind  in  the  morning  either  dead,  in  a  frenzy,  or  endowed  with  the  highest  poetical  inspiration. * 

I  LAY  on  that  rock  where  the  storms  have  their  dwelling, 

The  birthplace  of  phantoms,  the  home  of  the  cloud  ; 
Around  it  for  ever  deep  music  is  swelling, 

The  voice  of  the  mountain-wind,  solemn  and  loud. 
Twas  a  midnight  of  shadows  all  fitfully  streaming, 

Of  wild  waves  and  breezes,  that  mingled  their  moan ;  i 
Of  dim  shrouded  stars,  as  from  gulfs  faintly  gleaming ; 

And  I  met  the  dread  gloom  of  its  grandeur  alone. 

I  lay  there  in  silence— a  spirit  came  o'er  me ; 

Man's  tongue  hath  no  language  to  speak  what  I  saw ; 
Things  glorious,  unearthly,  passed  floating  before  me. 

And  my  heart  almost  fainted  with  rapture  and  awe, 
I  viewed  the  dread  beings  around  us  that  hover, 

Though  veiled  by  the  mists  of  mortality's  breath  ; 
And  I  called  upon  darkness  the  vision  to  cover, 

For  a  strife  was  within  me  of  madness  and  death.' 

I  saw  them — the  powers  of  the  wind  and  the  ocean, 

The  rush  of  whose  pinion  bears  onward  the  storms ; 
Like  the  sweep  of  the  white  rolling  wave  was  their  motion— 

I  felt  their  dim  presence,  but  knew  not  their  forms  f 
I  saw  them — the  mighty  of  ages  departed — 

The  dead  were  around  me  that  night  on  the  hill : 
From  their  eyes,  as  they  passed,  a  cold  radiance  they  darted, 

There  was  light  on  my  soul,  but  my  heart's  blood  was  chill 

1  saw  what  man  looks  on,  and  dies — but  my  spirit 

Was  strong,  and  triumphantly  lived  through  that  hour . 
And,  as  from  the  grave,  I  awoke  to  inherit 

A  Same  all  immortal,  a  voice,  and  a  power  1 
Day  burst  on  that  rock,  with  the  purple  cloud  crested, 

And  high  Cader  Idris  rejoiced  in  the  sun  ; — 
But  oh  1  what  new  glory  all  nature  invested, 

When  the  sense  which  gives  soul  to  her  beauty  was  won  I 

•  Axiuria,  one  of  the  noblest  of  the  Welsh  bards . 


130 

1523- 
THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA. 

A  DRAMATIC  POEM, 

Judicio  ha  dado  esta  no  vista  hazaSa 
Del  valor  que  en  los  slglos  venideros 
Tendrdn  los  Hijos  de  la  fuerte  Esp^Qo. 
Hijos  de  tal  padres  heraderos. 

Hallo  sola  en  Numancia  todo  quanto 

Debc  con  jus  to  titulo  cantarse, 

Y  lo  que  puede  dar  materia  al  canto. 

Numancia  dt  CSRVANTSS. 


THE  history  of  Spain  records  two  instances  of  the  severe  and  self-devoting  heroism 
which  forms  the  subject  of  the  following  dramatic  poem.  The  first  of  these  occurred  at 
the  siege  of  Tarifa,  which  was  defended  in  1294  for  Sancho,  King  of  Castile,  during  the 
rebellion  of  his  brother  Don  Juan,  by  Guzman,  surnamed  the  Good.*  The. second  is 
related  of  Alonso  Lopez  de  Texeda,  who,  until  his  garrison  had  been  utterly  disabled 
by  pestilence,  maintained  the  city  of  Zamora  for  the  children  of  Don  Pedro  the  Cruel, 
against  the  forces  of  Henrique  of  Trastamara.f 

Impressive  as  were  the  circumstances  which  distinguished  both  these  memorable 
sieges,  it  appeared  to  the  author  of  the  following  pages  that  a  deeper  interest,  as  well  as 
a  stronger  colour  of  nationality,  might  be  imparted  to  the  scenes  in  which  she  has  feebly 
attempted  "  to  describe  high  passions  and  high  actions ;"  by  connecting  a  religious 
feeling  with  the  patriotism  and  high-minded  loyalty  which  has  thus  been  proved  "  faith- 
ful unto  death,  and  by  surrounding  her  ideal  dramatis  personae  with  recollections 
derived  from  the  heroic  legends  of  Spanish  chivalry.  She  has,  for  this  reason,  employed 
the  agency  of  imaginary  characters,  and  fixed  upon  "  Valencia  del  Cid"  as  the  scene  tc 
give  them 

"  A  local  habitation  and  a  name." 


DRAMATIS  PERSONA. 
ALTAR  GONZALEZ    ....    Governor  of  Valencia. 


HERNANDEZ  ......  A  Priest. 

.__  (  A  Moorish  Prince,  Chief  of  the  Arm/ 

ABDULLAH     ......  {  tesieging  Valencia. 

GARCIAS     .......  A  Spanish  Knight. 

ELHINA      .......  Wife  to  Gonsale*. 

XiMENA      .......  Her  Daughter. 

THERESA    .......  An  Attendant. 

Citizens,  Soldiers,  Attendants,  &e. 


•  See  Qulntana's  "  Vidas  de  Espanoles  celebret,"  p.  j\ 
tSee  the  Preface  to  Southey's  "  Chronicle  of  the  CWi" 


THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA. 

SCENE  I.— Room  in  a  Palace  of  Valencia. 
XIMEMA  singing  to  a  lute. 

BALLAD. 

"  THOO  hast  not  been  with  a  festal  throng, 

At  the  pouring  of  the  wine ; 
Men  bear  not  from  the  Hall  of  Song 
A  mien  so  dark  as  thine  1 
There's  blood  upon  thy  shield, 
There's  dust  upon  thy  plume,— 
Thou  hast  brought,  from  some  disastrous  field. 
That  brow  of  wrath  and  gloom  I" 

"  And  is  there  blood  upon  my  shield  ? — 

Maiden  !  it  well  may  be  I 
We  have  sent  the  streams  from  our  battle-field! 
All  darkened  to  the  sea  I 
We  have  given  the  founts  a  stain 
'Midst  their  woods  of  ancient  pine  . 
And  the  ground  is  wet — but  not  with  rain. 
Deep-dyed — but  not  with  wine  I 

11  The  ground  is  wet — but  not  with  rain— 

We  have  been  in  war  array. 
And  the  noblest  blood  of  Christian  Spain 
Hath  bathed  her  soil  to-day. 
I  have  seen  the  strong  man  die, 
And  the  stripling  meet  his  fate, 
Where  the  mountain-winds  go  sounding  by, 
In  the  Roncesvalles'  Strait 

"In  the  gloomy  Roncesvalles'  Strait 

There  are  helms  and  lances  pleft ; 
And  they  that  moved  at  morn  elate 
On  a  bed  of  heath  are  left 
There's  many  a  fair  young  face, 
Which  the  war-steed  hath  gone  o  a , 
At  many  a  board  there  is  kept  a  place 
For  those  that  come  no  more  I" 

'•  Alas  I  for  love, — for  woman's  breast. 

If  woe  like  this  must  be  1 
Hast  thou  seen  a  youth  with  an  eagle  crest, 
And  a  white  plume  waving  free  ? 
With  his  proud  quick-flashing  eye, 
And  his  mien  of  knightly  state  ? 
Doth  he  come  from  where  the  swords  flashed  high, 
In  the  Roncesvalles'  Strait?" 

'•  In  the  gloomy  Roncesvalles'  Strali 

I  saw  and  marked  him  well ; 
For  nobly  on  his  steed  he  sate, 
When  the  pride  of  manhood  fell  I— 
But  it  is  not  youth  which  turns 
From  the  field  of  spears  again  \ 
For  the  boy's  high  heart  too  wildly  bams, 
Till  it  rests  amidst  the  slain  r 


132  TEE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA. 

"  Thou  canst  not  say  that  he  lies  low—- 
The lovely  and  the  brave  I 
Oh  I  none  could  look  on  his  joyous  brow, 
And  think  upon  the  grave  I 
Dark,  dark  perchance  the  day 
Hath  been  with  valour's  fate, 
Bat  he  is  on  his  homeward  way, 
From  the  Roncesvalles'  Strait  I" 

There  is  dust  upon  his  joyous  brow, 

And  o'er  his  graceful  head  ; 
And  the  war-horse  will  not  wake  him  now 
Though  it  bruise  his  greensward  bed  I 
I  have  seen  the  stripling  die, 
And  the  strong  man  meet  his  fate, 
Where  the  mountain-winds  go  sounding  by, 
ID  the  Roncesvalles'  Strait  1" 

ELMINA  Alters. 

Elm.  Your  songs  are  not  as  those  of  other  days, 
Mine  own  Ximena  1 — Where  is  now  the  young 
And  buoyant  spirit  of  the  morn,  which  once 
Breathed  in  your  spring-like  melodies,  and  woke 
Joy's  echo  from  all  hearts  ? 

Xim.  My  mother,  this 
Is  not  the  free  air  of  our  mountain-wilds ; 
And  these  are  not  the  halls,  wherein  my  voice 
First  poured  those  gladdening  strains. 

Elm.  Alas  t  thy  heart 
(I  see  it  well)  doth  sicken  for  the  pure, 
Free-wandering  breezes  of  the  joyous  hills, 
Where  thy  young  brothers,  o'er  the  rock  and  heath, 
Bound  in  glad  boyhood,  e'en  as  torrent-streams 
Leap  brightly  from  the  heights.    Had  we  not  been 
Within  these  walls  thus  suddenly  begirt, 
Thou  shouldst  have  tracked  ere  now,  with  step  as  light, 
Their  wild  wood-paths. 

Xim.  I  would  not  but  have  shared 
These  hours  of  woe  and  peril,  though  the  deep 
And  solemn  feelings  wakening  at  their  voice, 
Claim  all  the  wrought-up  spirit  to  themselves, 
And  will  not  blend  with  mirth.    The  storm  doth  hush 
All  floating  whispery  sounds,  all  bird-notes  wild 
O'  the  summer-forest,  filling  earth  and  heaven 
With  its  own  awful  music.— And  'tis  well  1 
Should  not  a  hero's  child  be  trained  to  hear 
The  trumpet's  blast  unstartled,  and  to  look 
In  the  fixed  face  of  Death  without  dismay? 

Elm.  Woe  I  woe  1  that  aught  so  gentle  and  so  young 
Should  thus  be  called  to  stand  i'  the  tempest's  path, 
And  bear  the  token  and  the  hue  of  death 
On  a  bright  soul  so  soon  !  I  had  not  shrunk 
From  mine  own  lot,  but  thou,  my  child,  shouldst  move 
As  a  light  breeze  of  heaven,  through  summer-bowers, 
And  not  o'er  foaming  billows.    We  are  fallen 
On  dark  and  evil  dave ' 

Xim.  Ay,  days,  that  wake 
All  to  their  tasks  I— Youth  may  not  ioiter  now 


TEE  SIEGE  OP  VALENCIA.  133 

In  the  green  walks  of  spring  ;  and  womanhood 
Is  summoned  unto  conflicts,  heretofore 
The  lot  of  warrior-souls.     But  we  will  take 
Our  toils  upon  us  nobly  I    Strength  is  born 
In  the  deep  silence  of  long-suffering  hearts  , 
Not  amidst  joy. 

Elm.  Hast  thou  some  secret  woe 
That  thus  thou  speak'st  ? 

Xim.  What  sorrow  should  be  mine, 
Unknown  to  thee? 

Elm.  Alas  !  the  baleful  air 
Wherewith  the  pestilence  in  darkness  walks 
Through  the  devoted  city,  like  a  blight 
Amidst  the  rose-tints  cf  thy  cheek  hath  fallen, 
And  wrought  an  early  withering  ! — Thou  hast  crossed 
The  paths  of  Death,  and  ministered  to  those 
O'er  whom  his  shadow  rested,  till  thine  eye 
Hath  changea  its  glancing  sunbeam  for  a  still 
Deep,  solemn  radiance,  and  thy  brow  hath  caught 
A  wild  and  high  expression,  which  at  times 
Fades  unto  desolate  calmness,  most  unlike 
What  youth's  bright  mien  should  wear.    My  gentle  cinid 
I  look  on  thee  in  fear ! 

Xim.  Thou  hast  no  cause 
To  fear  for  me.     When  the  wild  clash  of  sted, 
And  the  deep  tambour,  and  the  heavy  step 
Of  armed  men,  break  on  our  morning  dream*  , 
When,  hour  by  hour,  the  noble  and  the  brave 
Are  falling  round  us,  and  we  deem  it  much 
To  give  them  funeral  rites,  and  call  them  blest . 
If  the  good  sword,  in  its  own  stormy  hour, 
Hath  done  its  work  upon  them,  ere  disease 
Hath  chilled  their  fiery  blood  ;•  -it  is  no  time  . 
For  the  light  mien  wherewith,  in  happier  hours, 
We  trod  the  woodland  mazes,  when  young  leaves 
Were  whispering  in  the  gale.  —  My  father  comes— 
Oh  I  speak  of  me  no  more !    I  would  not  shade 
His  princely  aspect  with  a  thought  less  high 
Than  his  proud  duties  claim. 

GONZALEZ  enters. 

Elm.  My  noble  lord  I 

Welcome  from  this  day's  toil  I — It  is  the  now 
Whose  shadows,  as  they  deepen,  bring  repose 
Unto  all  weary  men ;  and  wilt  not  thou         -* 
Free  thy  mailed  bosom  from  the  corslet's  weight. 
To  rest  at  fall  of  eve  ? 

Gon.  There  may  be  rest 
For  the  tired  peasant,  when  the  vesper-bell 
Doth  send  him  to  his  cabin,  and  beneath 
His  vine  and  olive,  he  may  sit  at  eve, 
Watching  his  children's  sport :  but  unto  him "-. 
Who  keeps  the  watch-place  on  the  mountain  height, 
When  Heaven  lets  loose  the  storms  that  chasten  realms 
— Who  speaks  of  rest? 

Xim.  My  father,  shall  I  fill 
The  wine-cup  for  thy  lips,  or  bring  ice  lute 
Whose  sounds  tliou  lovest  ? 


134  THE  SIEQE  OF  VALENCIA. 

Gen.  If  there  be  strains  of  power 
To  rouse  a  spirit  which  in  triumphant  scorn 
May  cast  off  nature's  feebleness,  and  hold 
Its  proud  career  unshackled,  dashing  down 
Tears  and  fond  thoughts  to  earth — give  voice  to  chose ', 
I  have  need  of  such,  Ximena  ! — we  must  hear 
No  melting  music  now. 

Xim.  I  know  all  high 
Heroic  ditties  of  the  elder  time, 
Sung  by  the  mountain-Christians,  in  the  holds 
Of  th'  everlasting  hills,  whose  snows  yet  bear 
The  print  of  Freedom's-step  ;  and  all  wild  strains 
Wherein  the  dark  serranos*  teach  the  rocks 
And  the  pine  forests  deeply  to  resound 
The  praise  of  later  champions.    Wouldst  thou  hear 
The  war-song  of  thine  ancestor,  the  Cid  ? 

Gon.  Ay,  speak  of  him  ;  for  in  that  name  is  power. 
Such  as  might  rescue  kingdoms  I    Speak  of  him  1 
We  are  his  children  !    They  that  can  look  back 
I'  th'  annals  of  their  house  on  such  a  name, 
How  should  they  take  dishonour  by  the  band. 
And  o'er  the  threshold  of  their  father's  hall? 
First  lead  her  as  a  guest  ? 

Elm.  Oh,  why  is  this  ? 
How  my  heart  sinks  ! 

Gon.  It  must  not  fail  theeju/, 
Daughter  of  heroes  ! — thine  inheritance 
Is  strength  to  meet  all  conflicts.    Thou  canst  number 
In  thy  long  line  of  glorious  ancestry 
Men,  the  bright  offering  of  whose  blood  hath  made 
The  ground  it  bathed  e'en  as  an  altar,  whence 
High  thoughts  shall  rise  for  ever.     Bore  they  not, 
'Midst  flame  and  sword,  their  witness  of  the  Cross, 
With  its  victorious  inspiration  girt 
As  with  a  conqueror's  robe,  till  th'  infidel 
O'erawed,  shrank  back  before  them  ? — Ay,  the  earth 
Doth  call  them  martyrs,  but  their  agonies 
Were  of  a  moment,  tortures  whose  brief  aim 
Was  to  destroy,  within  whose  powers  and  scope 
Lay  nought  but  dust— And  earth  doth  call  them  marfyrt .' 
Why,  Heaven  but  claimed  their  blood,  their  lives,  and  not 
The  things  which  grow  as  tendrils  round  their  hearts  ; 
No,  not  their  children  1 

Elm.  Mean'st  thou  ?— know'st  thou  aught  >— 
1  cannot  utter  it — My  sons  I  my  sons  I 
Is  it  of  them  ?— Oh  I  wouldst  thou  speak  of  them  t 

Gon,  A  mother's  heart  divinetlrbuttoo  well  1 

Elm.  Speak,  I  adjure  thee  I— I  can  bear  it  ail- 
Where  are  my  children  ? 

Gon.  In  the  Moorish  camp 
Whose  lines  have  girt  the  city. 

Xim.  But  they  live? 
—AH  is  not  lost,  my  moths  I 

Elm.  Say,  they  live. 

Gon.  Elmina,  still  they  live. 


*  "  Serraaos,"  mountaineers. 


THE  8TEGE  OF  VALENCIA.  135 

Elm.  But  captives  !— They 
Whom  my  fond  heart  had  imaged  to  itself 
Bounding  from  cliff  to  cliff  amidst  the  wilds 
Where  the  rock-eagle  seemed  not  more  secure 
In  its  rejoicing  freedom  I — And  my  boys 
Are  captives  with  the  Moor  I — Oh  I  how  -was  this  ? 

Gon.  Alas  !  our  brave  Alphonso,  in  the  pride 
Of  boyish  daring,  left  our  mountain-halls, 
With  his  young  brother,  eager  to  behold 
The  face  of  noble  war.    Thence  on  their  wny 
Were  the  rash  wanderers  captured. 

Elm.  'Tis  enough.— 
And  when  shall  they  bo  ransomed  ? 

Gon.  There  is  asked 
A  ransom  far  too  high. 

Elm.  What  I  have  we  vtcalih 
Which  might  redeem  a  monarch,  and  our  sons 
The  while  wear  fetters? — Take  thou  all  for  them, 
And  we  will  cast  our  worthless  grandeur  from  us, 
As  'twere  a  cumbrous  robe  !— Why,  thou  art  one 
To  whose  high  nature  pomp  hath  ever  been 
But  as  the  plumage  to  a  warrior  s  helm, 
Worn  or  thrown  off  as  lightly.    And  for  me, 
Thou  knowest  not  how  serenely  1  could  take 
The  peasant's  lot  upon  me,  so  my  heart, 
Amidst  its  deep  affections  undisturbed, 
May  dwell  in  silence. 

Xim.  Father  I  doubt  thou  not 
But  we  will  bind  ourselves  to  poverty, 
With  glad  devotedness,  if  this,  but  this, 
May  win  them  back.  — Distrust  us  not,  my  father, 
We  can  bear  all  things. 

Gon.  Can  ye  bear  disgrace  ? 

Xim.  We  were  not  born  for  this. 

Gon.  No,  thou  sayest  well  I 
Hold  to  that  lofty  faith  — My  wife,  my  child  i 
Hath  earth  no  treasures  richer  than  the  gems 
Tom  from  her  becrei  caverns  ?— If  by  them 
Chains  may  be  riven,  then  let  the  captive  spring 
Rejoicing  to  the  light  )—  But  he,  for  whom 
Freedom  and  life  may  but  be  worn  with  shame, 
Hath  nought  to  do,  save  fearlessly  to  fix 
His  steadfast  look  on  the  majestic  heavens, 
And  proudly  die  I 

Elm.  Gonzalez,  who  must  die  ? 

Gon.  (hurriedly}.  They  on  whose  lives  a  learful  price  Is  set, 
But  to  be  paid  by  treason  I — Is't  enough  ? 
Or  must  1  yet  seek  words  ? 

Elm.  That  look  saith  more  I 
Thou  canst  not  mean 

Gon.   \  do  !  why  dwells  there  not 
Power  in  a  glance  to  speak  it  ?  they  must  die  I 
They — must  their  names  be  told — Our  ions  must  die 
Unless  I  yield  the  city  I 
Xim.  Oh  I  look  up  I 

My  mother,  sink  not  thus  I — Until  the  grave 

Shut  from  our  sight  its  victims,  there  is  hope.  [not  theirs  '• 

Elm.   (in  a  low  voice}.     Whose  knell  wa&  in  the  breeze  ?  No,  no 


136  THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA. 

Whose  was  the  blessed  voice  that  spoke  of  hope? 
—And  there  is  hope  ? — I  will  not  be  subdued — 
I  will  not  hear  a  whisper  of  despair  I 
For  Nature  is  all-powerful,  and  her  breath 
Moves  like  a  quickening  spirit  o'er  the  depths 
Within  a  father's  heart. — Thou  too,  Gonzalez. 
Wilt  tell  me  there  is  hope? 

Gon.  (solemnly).  Hope  but  in  Him 
Who  bade  the  patriarch  lay  his  fair  young  son 
Bound  on  the  shrine  of  sacrifice,  and  when 
The  bright  steel  quivered  in  the  father's  hand 
Just  raised  to  strike,  sent  forth  His  awful  voice 
Through  the  still  clouds,  and  on  the  breathless  air. 
Commanding  to  withhold  ! — Earth  has  no  hope : 
It  rests  with.  Him. 

Elm.  Thou  canst  not  tell  me  this  I 
Thou  father  of  my  sons ;  within  whose  hands 
Doth  lie  thy  children's  fate. 

Gon.  If  there  have  been 

Men  in  whose  bosoms  Nature's  voice  bath  made 
Its  accents  as  the  solitary  sound 
Of  an  o'erpowering  torrent,  silencing 
Th'  austere  and  yet  divine  remonstrances 
Whispered  by  faith  and  honour,  lift  thy  hands, 
And,  to  that  Heaven  which  arms  the  brave  with  strength. 
Pray,  that  the  father  of  thy  sons  may  ne'er 
Be  thus  found  wanting  1 

Elm.  Then  their  doom  is  sealed? 
Thou  wilt  not  save  thy  children  ? 

Gon.  Hast  thou  cause, 
Wife  of  my  youth  1  to  deem  it  lies  within 
The  bounds  of  possible  things,  that  I  should  link 
My  name  to  that  word — traitor  9— They  that  sleep 
On  their  proud  battle-fields,  thy  sires  and  mine. 
Died  not  for  this  I 

Elm.  Oh,  cold  and  hard  of  heart  I 
Thou  shouldst  be  bom  for  empire,  since  thy  soul 
Thus  lightly  from  all  human  bonds  can  free 
Its  haughty  flight !— Men  I  men !  too  much  is  yours 
'  Of  vantage  :  ye,  that  with  a  sound,  a  breath, 
A  shadow,  thus  can  fill  the  desolate  space 
Of  rooted  up  affections,  o'er  whose  void 
„        Our  yearning  hearts  must  wither  I    So  it  is, 
Dominion  must  be  won  1 — Nay,  leave  me  not— 
My  heart  is  bursting,  and  I  must  be  heard  I 
Heaven  hath  given  power  to  mortal  agony 
As  to  the  elements  in  their  hour  of  might 
And  mastery  o'er  creation  I — Who  shall  dare 
To  mock  that  fearful  strength  ? — I  must  be  heard  1 
Give  me  my  sons  I 

Gon.  That  they  may  live  to  hide 
With  covering  hands  th'  indignant  flush  of  shame 
On  their  young  brows,  when  meb  shall  speak  of  him 
They  called  their  father  1— Was  the  oath,  whereby. 
On  th'  altar  of  my  faith,  I  bound  myself, 
With  an  unswerving  spirit  to  maintain 
This  free  and  Christian  city  for  my  God 
And  for  my  king,  a  writing  traced  on  sand  ? 


TEL  S1EQE  OF  VALENCIA. 

That  passionate  tears  should  wash  it  from  the  earth, 

Or  e  en  the  life-drops  of  a  bleeding  heart 

Efface  it,  as  a  billow  sweeps  away 

The  last  light  vessel's  wake  ?— Then  never  more 

Let  man's  deep  vows  be  trusted !— though  enforced 

By  all  th'  appeals  of  high  remembrances, 

And  silent  claims  o'  th'  sepulchres,  wherein 

His  fathers  with  their  stainless  glory  sleep, 

On  their  good  swords  I  Thinkst  thou  /  feel  no  pangs  ? 

He  that  hath  given  me  sons,  doth  know  the  heart 

Whose  treasure  she  recalls. — Of  this  no  more. 

Tis  vain.    I  tell  thee  that  th'  inviolate  cross 

Still,  from  our  ancient  temples,  must  look  up 

Through  the  blue  heavens  of  Spain,  though  at  its  foot 

I  perish,  with  my  race.    Thou  darest  not  ask 

That  I,  the  son  of  warriors — men  who  died 

To  fix  it  on  that  proud  supremacy — 

Should  tear  the  sign  of  our  victorious  faith 

From  its  high  place  of  sunbeams,  for  the  Moor 

In  impious  joy  to  trample  t 

Elm.  Scorn  me  not 

In  mine  extreme  of  misery  I — Thou  art  strong— 
Thy  heart  is  not  as  mine. — My  brain  grows  wild ; 
1  know  not  what  I  ask  I — And  yet  'twere  but 
Anticipating  fate — since  it  must  fall, 
That  cross  must  fall  at  last  I  There  is  no  power, 
No  hope  within  this  city  of  the  grave, 
To  keep  its  place  on  high.     Her  sultry  air 
Breathes  heavily  of  death,  her  warriors  sink 
Beneath  their  ancient  banners,  ere  the  Moor 
Hath  bent  his  bow  against  them  ;  for  the  shafl 
Of  pestilence  flies  more  swiftly  to  its  mark 
Than  the  arrow  of  the  desert.     E'en  the  skies          « 
O'erhang  the  desolate  splendour  of  her  domes 
With  an  ill  omen's  aspect,  shaping  forth, 
From  the  dull  clouds,  wild  menacing  forms  and  signs 
Foreboding  ruin.     Man  might  be  withstood. 
But  who  shall  cope  with  famine  and  disease. 
When  leagued  with  armed  foes  ?— Where  now  the  aid, 
Where  the  long-promised  lances  of  Castile  ?— 
We  are  forsaken,  in  our  utmost  need, 
By  Heaven  and  earth  forsaken  I 

Gon.  If  this  be. 

(And  yet  I  will  not  deem  it)  we  must  fall 
As  men  that  in  severe  devotedness 
Have  chosen  their  part,  and  bound  themselves  to  death, 
Through  high  conviction  that  their  suffering  land. 
By  the  free  blood  of  martyrdom  alone. 
Shall  call  deliverance  down. 

Elm.  Oh  I  I  have  stood 
Beside  thee  through  the  beating  storms  of  life. 
With  the  true  heart  of  unrepining  love. 
As  the  poor  peasant's  mate  doth  cheerily. 
In  the  parched  vineyard,  or  the  harvest-field, 
Bearing  her  part,  sustain  with  him  the  heat 
And  burden  of  the  day ; — but  now  the  hour, 
The  heavy  hour  is  come,  when  human  strength 
Sinks  down,  a  toil-worn  pilgrim   in  the  dust. 


188  THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA. 

Owning  that  woe  is  mightier  I — Spare  me  yet 
This  bitter  cup,  my  husband  1 — Let  not  her, 
The  mother  of  the  lovely,  sit  and  mourn 
In  her  unpeopled  home,  a  broken  stem, 
O'er  its  fallen  roses  dying  I 

Gon.  Urge  me  not, 

Thou  that  through  all  sharp  conflicts  hast  been  touud 
Worthy  a  brave  man's  love,  oh !  urge  me  not 
To  guilt,  which  through  the  midst  of  blinding  tears, 
In  its  own  hues  thou  seest  not ! — Death  may  scarce 
Bring^  aught  like  this  1 

Elm.  All,  all  thy  gentle  race, 
The  beautiful  beings  that  around  thee  grew, 
Creatures  of  sunshine  I  Wilt  thou  doom  them  all  ? 
i     —She,  too,  thy  daughter — doth  her  smile  unmarked 
Pass  from  thee,  with  its  radiance,  day  by  day  ? 
Shadows  are  gathering  round  her — seest  thou  not 
The  misty  dimness  of  the  spoiler's  breath 
Hangs  o'er  her  beauty,  and  the  face  which  made 
The  summer  of  our  hearts,  now  doth  but  send, 
With  every  glance,  deep  bodings  through  the  soul 
Telling  of  early  fate. 

Qon.  I  see  a  change 
Far  nobler  on  her  brow  1 — She  is  as  one 
Who,  at  the  trumpet's  sudden  call,  hath  risen 
From  the  gay  banquet,  and  in  scom  cast  down 
The  wine-cup,  and  the  garland,  and  the  lute 
Of  festal  hours,  for  the  good  spear  and  helm, 
Beseeming  sterner  tasks. — Her  eye  hath  lost 
The  beam  which  laughed  upon  th'  awakening  heait, 
E'en  as  morn  breaks  o'er  earth.     But  far  within 
Its  full  dark  orb,  a  light  hath  sprung,  whose  source 
Lies  deeper  in  the  soul. — And  let  the  torch 
Which  but  illumed  the  glittering  pageant  fade  i 
The  altar-flame,  i'  th'  sanctuary's  recess, 
Burns  quenchless,  being  of  heaven  I — She  hath  put  on 
Courage,  and  faith,  and  generous  constancy, 
E'en  as  a  breastplate. — Ay,  men  look  on  her, 
As  she  goes  forth  serenely  to  her  tasks, 
Binding  the  warrior's  wounds,  and  bearing  fresh 
Cool  draughts  to  fevered  lips  ;  they  look  on  her 
Thus  moving  in  her  beautiful  array 
Of  gentle  fortitude,  and  bless  the  fair 
Majestic  vision,  and  unmurmuring  turn 
Unto  their  heavy  toils. 

Elm.  And  seest  thou  not 
In  that  high  faith  and  strong  collectedness, 
A  fearful  inspiration? — They  have  cause 
To  tremble,  who  behold  th'  unearthly  light 
Of  high,  and,  it  may  be,  prophetic  thought, 
Investing  youth  with  grandeur ! — From  the  grave 
It  rises,  on  whose  shadowy  brink  thy  child 
Waits  but  a  father's  hand  to  snatch  her  back 
Into  the  laughing  sunshine. — Kneel  with  me, 
Ximena,  kneel  beside  me,  and  implore 
That  which  a  deeper,  more  prevailing  voice 
Than  ours  doth  ask,  and  will  not  be  denied,— 
His  children's  h'vea  I 


THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA.  139 

Him.  Alas  1  this  may  cot  be, 
Mother  !— I  cannot.  [Exit  XlMENA. 

Gon.  My  heroic  child  !— 
A  terrible  sacrifice  thou  claim'st,  O  God, 
From  creatures  in  whose  agonizing  heart* 
Nature  is  strong  as  death  I 

Elm.  Is't  thus  in  thine  ? 
Away  I — what  time  is  given  thee  to  resolve 
On  I — what  I  cannot  utter  I — Speak,  thou  knowest 
Too  well  what  I  would  say. 

Gan.  Until — ask  not  I 
The  time  is  brief. 

Elm.  Thou  saidst — I  heard  not  right- 
Go*.  The  time  is  brief. 

Elm.  What !  must  we  burst  all  ties 
Wherewith  the  thrilling  chords  of  life  are  twined  : 
And,  for  this  task's  fulfilment,  can  it  be 
That  man,  in  his  cold  heartlessness,  hath  dared 
To  number  and  to  mete  us  forth  the  sands 
Of  hours — nay,  moments  ? — Why,  the  sentenced  wretch. 
He  on  whose  soul  there  rests  a  brother's  blood 
Poured  forth  in  slumber,  is  allowed  more  time 
To  wean  his  turbulent  passions  from  the  world 
His  presence  doth  pollute  I — It  is  not  thus  1 
We  must  have  Time  to  school  us. 

Gon.  We  have  but 

To  bow  the  head  in  silence,  when  Heaven  s  voice 
Calls  back  the  things  we  love. 

Elm.  Love  1  love  I — there  are  soft  smiles  and  gentle  words-, 
And  there  are  faces,  skilful  to  put  on 
The  look  we  trust  in — and  'tis  mockery  all ! 
— A  faithless  mist,  a  desert-vapour,  wearing 
The  brightness  of  clear  waters,  thus  to  cheat 
The  thirst  that  semblance  kindled  1— There  is  none, 
In  all  this  cold  and  hollow  world,  no  fount 
Of  deep,  strong,  deathless  love,  save  that  within 
A  mother's  heart. — It  is  but  pride,  wherewith 
To  his  fair  son  the  father's  eye  doth  turn, 
Watching  his  growth.    Ay,  on  the  boy  he  looks, 
The  bright  glad  creature  springing  in  his  path, 
But  as  the  heir  of  his  great  name,  the  young 
And  stately  tree,  whose  rising  strength  ere  long 
Shall  bear  his  trophies  well. — And  this  is  love  I 
This  is  man's  love ! — What  marvel !—  You  ne'er  made 
Your  breast  the  pillow  of  his  infancy, 
While  to  the  fulness  of  your  heart's  glad  heavings 
His  fair  cheek  rose  and  fell ;  and  his  bright  hair 
Waved  softly  to  your  breath  I —  You  ne'er  kept  watch 
fleside  him,  till  the  last  pale  star  had  set, 
And  morn  all  dazzling,  as  in  triumph,  broke 
On  your  dim  weary  eye  ;  not  yours  the  face 
Which,  early  faded  through  fond  care  for  him, 
Hung  o'er  his  sleep,  and,  duly  as  Heaven's  light, 
Was  there  to  greet  his  wakening  1     You  ne'er  smoothed 
His  couch,  ne  er  sang  him  to  his  rosy  rest, 
Caught  his  least  whisper,  when  his  voice  from  yours 
Had  learned  soft  utterance ;  pressed  your  lip  to  his, 
When  fever  parched  it ;  hushed  his  wayward  cries. 


140  THE  BIEGE  OF  VALENCIA. 

Wifn  patient,  vigilant,  never-wearied  love  I 

No !  these  are  woman's  tasks  1 — In  these  her  youth 

And  bloom  of  cheek,  and  buoyancy  of  heart, 

Steal  fron  her  all  unmark'd ! — My  boys  1  my  boys  I 

Hath  vain  affection  borne  with  all  for  this? 

— Why  were  ye  given  me  ? 

Gait.  Is  there  strength  in  man 

Thus  to  endure  ?— That  thou  couldst  read,  through  all 
Its  depths  of  silent  agony,  the  heart 
Thy  voice  of  woe  doth  rend  1 

Elm.  Thy  heart  I— thy  heart  !— Away  I  it  feels  not  notof 
But  an  hour  comes  to  tame  the  mighty  man 
Unto  the  infant's  weakness  ;  nor  shall  Heaven 
Spare  you  that  bitter  chastening ! — May  you  live 
To  be  alone,  when  loneliness  doth  seem 
Most  heavy  to  sustain ! — For  me,  my  voice 
Of  prayer  and  fruitless  weeping  shalLbe  soon 
With  all  forgotten  sounds  ;  my  quiet  place 
Low  with  my  lovely  ones,  and  we  shall  sleep, 
Though  kings  lead  armies  o  er  us,  we  shall  sleep, 
Wrapt  in  earth's  covering  mantle  1 — you  the  while 
Shall  sit  within  your  vast,  forsaken  halls, 
And  hear  the  wild  and  melancholy  winds 
Moan  through  their  drooping  banners,  never  mote 
To  wave  above  your  race.    Ay,  then  call  up 
Shadows — dim  phantoms  from  ancestral  tombs, 
But  all — all  glorious— conquerors,  chieftains,  kings—- 
To people  that  cold  void  I — And  when  the  strength 
From  your  right  arm  hath  melted,  when  the  blast 
Of  the  shrill  clarion  gives  your  heart  no  more 
A  fiery  wakening  ;  if  at  last  you  pine 
For  the  glad  voices,  and  the  bounding  steps, 
Once  through  your  home  re-echoing,  and  the  clasp 
Of  twining  arms,  and  all  the  joyous  light 
Of  eyes  that  laughed  with  youth,  and  made  your  board 
A  place  of  sunshine  ; — when  those  days  are  come, 
Then  in  your  utter  desolation,  turn 
To  the  cold  world,  the  smiling,  faithless  world, 
Which  hath  swept  past  you  long,  and  bid  it  quench 
Your  soul's  deep  thirst  vriib/ame/  immortal  fame/ 
Fame  to  the  sick  of  heart ! — a  gorgeous  robe, 
A  crown  of  victory,  unto  him  that  dies 
I1  th'  burning  waste,  for  water  I 

Gon.  This  from  thee  / 
Now  the  last  drop  of  bitterness  is  poured. 
Elmina— I  forgive  thee  1  [Exit  ELMINA, 

Aid  me,  Heaven  1 

From  whom  alone  is  power  1 — Oh !  thou  hast  set 
Duties,  so  stern  of  aspect,  in  my  path, 
They  almost,  to  my  startled  gaze,  assume 
The  hue  of  things  less  hallowed  I    Men  have  sunk 
Unblamed  beneath  such  trials  I — Doth  not  He 
Who  made- us  know  the  limits  of  our  strength  ? 
My  wife  1  my  sons  I — Away  1  I  must  not  pause 
To  give  my  heart  one  moment's  masterv  thus  I 

(Exit  GONZALEZ. 


THE  8IEOE  OF  VALENCIA.  141 

SCENE—  The  Aisle  of  a  Gothic  Church. 
HERNANDEZ,  GAP.CIAS,  and  other: 

Her.  The  rites  are  closed.     Now,  valiant  men,  depart. 
Each  to  his  place — I  may  not  say,  of  rest  ; 
Your  faithful  vigils  for  your  sons  may  win 
What  must  not  be  your  own.    Ye  are  as  those 
Who  sow,  in  peril  and  in  care,  the  seed 
Of  the  fair  tree,  beneath  whose  stately  shade 
They  may  not  sit.     But  blessed  be  they  who  tofl 
For  after-days ! — All  high  and  holy  thoughts 
Be  with  you,  warriors,  through  the  lingering  hours 
Of  the  night-watch  I 

Gar.  Ay,  father  I  we  have  need 
Of  high  and  holy  thoughts,  wherewith  to  fence 
Our  hearts  against  despair.    Yet  have  I  been 
From  youth  a  son  of  war.    The  stars  have  lookod 
A  thousand  times  upon  my  couch  of  heath, 
Spread  'midst  the  wild  sierras,  by  some  stream 
Whose  dark-red  waves  looked  e'en  as  though  their  source 
Lay  not  in  rocky  caverns,  but  the  veins 
Of  noble  hearts ;  while  many  a  knightly  crest 
Rolled  with  them  to  the  deep.    And  in  the  years 
Of  my  long  exile  and  captivity, 
With  the  fierce  Arab,  I  have  watched  beneath 
The  still,  pale  shadow  of  some  lonely  palm, 
At  midnight,  in  the  desert ;  while  the  wind 
Swelled  with  the  lion's  roar,  and  heavily 
The  fearfulness  and  might  of  solitude 
Pressed  on  my  weary  heart. 

Her.  (thoughtfully.}    Thou  little  know'st 
Of  what  is  solitude  1— I  tell  thee,  those 
For  whom — in  earth's  remotest  nook — howe'er 
Divided  from  their  path  by  chain  on  chain 
Of  mighty  mountains,  and  the  amplitude 
Of  rolling  seas — there  beats  one  human  heart, 
There  breathes  one  being  unto  whom  their  name 
Comes  with  a  thrilling  and  a  gladdening  sound 
Heard  o'er  the  din  of  life  are  not  alone ! 
Not  on  the  deep,  nor  in  the  wild,  alone ; 
For  there  is  that  on  earth  with  which  they  hold 
A  brotherhood  of  soul ! — Call  him  alone, 
Who  stands  shut  out  from  this  ! — And  let  not  those 
Whose  homes  are  bright  with  sunshine  and  with  low. 
Put  on  the  insolence  of  happiness, 
Glorying  in  that  proud  lot ! — A  lonely  hour 
Is  on  its  way  to  each,  to  all ;  for  Death 
Knows  no  companionship. 

Gar.  I  have  looked  on  Death 
In  field,  and  storm,  and  flood.     But  never  yet 
Hath  aught  weighed  down  my  spirit  to  a  mood 
Of  sadness,  dreaming  o'er  dark  auguries, 
Like  this,  our  watch  by  midnight.     Fearful  things 
Are  gathering  round  us.    Death  upon  the  earth, 
Omens  in  Heaven  1 — -The  summer-skies  put  forth 
No  clear  bright  stars  above  us,  but  at  times, 
Catching  some  comet's  6erv  hue  of  wrath, 


143  THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA. 

Marshal  their  clouds  to  armies,  traversing 
Heaven  with  the  rush  of  meteor-steeds,  the  array 
Of  spears  and  banners,  tossing  like  the  pines 
Of  Pyrenean  forests,  when  the  storm 
*       Doth  sweep  the  mountains. 

Her,  Ay,  last  night  I  too 
Kept  vigil,  gazing  on  the  angry  heavens ; 
And  I  beheld  the  meeting  and  the  shock 
Of  those  wild  hosts  i'  th'  air,  when,  as  they  closed. 
A  red  and  sultry  mist,  like  that  which  mantles 
The  thunder's  path,  fell  o'er  them.    Then  were  Sung 
Through  the  dull  glare,  broad  cloudy  banners  forth, 
And  chariots  seemed  to  whirl,  and  steeds  to  sink, 
Bearing  down  crested  warriors.     But  all  this 
Was  dim  and  shadowy ; — then  swift  darkness  rushed 
Down  on  th'  unearthly  battle,  as  the  deep 
Swept  o'er  the  Egyptian's  armament— I  looked— 
And  all  that  fiery  field  of  plumes  and  spears 
Was  blotted  from  heaven's  face  1 — I  looked  again— 
And  from  the  brooding  mass  of  cloud  leaped  forth 
One  meteor-sword,  which  o'er  the  reddening  sea 
Shook  with  strange  motion,  such  as  earthquakes  give 
Unto  a  rocking  citadel  I — I  beheld, 
And  yet  my  spirit  sank  not. 

Gar.  Neither  deem 

That  mine  hath  blenched. — But  these  are  sights  and  sounds 
To  awe  the  firmest. — Knowest  thou  what  we  hear 
At  midnight  from  the  walls  ? — Were't  but  the  deep 
Barbaric  horn,  or  Moorish  tambour's  peal, 
Thence  might  the  warrior's  heart  catch  impulses, 
Quickening  its  fiery  currents.     But  our 'ears 
Are  pierced  by  other  tones.    We  hear  the  knell 
For  brave  men  in  their  noon  of  strength  cut  down, 
And  the  shrill  wail  of  woman,  and  the  dirge 
Faint  swelling  through  the  streets.    Then  e'en  the  air 
Hath  strange  and  fitful  murmurs  of  lament, 
As  if  the  viewless  watchers  of  the  land 
Sighed  on  its  hollow  breezes  1 — To  my  soul, 
The  torrent-rush  of  battle,  with  its  din 
Of  trampling  steeds  and  ringing  panoply, 
Were,  after  these  faint  sounds  of  drooping  woe, 
As  the  free  sky's  glad  music  unto  him 
Who  leaves  a  couch  of  sickness, 

Her.  (with  solemnity).  If  to  plunge 
In  the  mid-waves  of  combat,  as  they  bear 
Chargers  and  spearmen  onwards  ;  and  to  make 
A  reckless  bosom's  front  the  buoyant  mark 
On  that  wild  current,  for  ten  thousand  arrows  ; 
If  thus  to  dare  were  valour's  noblest  aim, 
Lightly  might  fame  be  won  1 — but  there  are  things 
Which  ask  a  spirit  of  more  exalted  pitch, 
And  courage  tempered  with  a  holier  fire  ! 
Well  mayst  thou  say,  that  these  are  fearful  times, 
Therefore  be  firm,  be  patient  1— There  is  strength, 
And  a  fierce  instinct,  e'en  in  common  souls, 
To  bear  up  manhood  with  a  stormy  joy, 
When  red  swords  meet  in  lightning !  — But  our  task 
Is  more,  and  nobler  ! — We  have  to  endure, 


THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA.  U3 

And  to  keep  watch,  and  to  arouse  a  land, 

And  to  defend  an  altar  I — If  we  fall, 

So  that  our  blood  make  but  the  millionth  part 

Of  Spain's  great  ransom,  we  may  count  it  joy 

To  die  upon  her  bosom,  and  beneath 

The  banner  of  her  faith  I — Think  but  on  this. 

And  gird  your  hearts  with  silent  fortitude, 

Suffering,  yet  hoping  all  things — Fare  ye  well. 

Gar.  Father,  farewell    [Exeunt  GARCIAS  and  hit  follower* 

Her.  These  men  have  earthly  ties 
And  bondage  on  their  natures  I — To  the  cause 
Of  God,  and  Spain's  revenge,  they  bring  but  half 
Their  energies  and  hopes.    But  he  whom  Heaven 
Hath  called  to  be  th'  awakener  of  a  land, 
Should  have  his  soul's  affections  all  absorbed 
In  that  majestic  purpose,  and  press  on 
To  its  fulfilment,  as  a  mountain-born 
And  mighty  stream,  with  all  its  vassal-rills 
Sweeps  proudly  to  the  ocean,  pausing  not 
To  dally  with  the  flowers. 

Hark  I    What  quic*  step 
Comes  hurrying  through  the  gloom  at  this  dead  hour? 

ELMINA  enters. 

Elm,  Are  not  all  hours  as  one  to  misery  ? — Why 
Should  she  lake  note  of  time,  for  whom  the  day 
And  night  have  lost  their  blessed  attributes 
Of  sunshine  and  repose  ? 

Her.  I  know  thy  griefs  ; 
But  there  are  trials  for  the  noble  heart 
Wherein  its  own  deep  fountains  must  supply 
All  it  can  hope  of  comfort.     Pity's  voice 
Comes  with  vain  sweetness  to  th'  unheeding  ear 
Of  anguish,  e'en  as  music  heard  afar 
On  the  green  shore,  by  him  who  perishes 
'Midst  rocks  and  edi lying  waters. 

Elm.  Think  thou  lot 
I  sought  thee  but  foi  pity.    I  am  come 
For  that  which  grief  is  privileged  to  demand 
With  an  imperious  claim,  from  all  whose  form, 
Whose  human  form,  doth  sesJl  them  unto  suffering  f 
Father  1  I  ask  thine  aid. 

Her.  There  is  no  aid  i 

For  thee  or  for  thy  children,  but  with  Him 
Whose  presence  is  around  us  in  the  cloud, 
As  in  the  shining  and  the  glorious  light 

Elm.  There  is  no  aid  1— Art  thou  a  man  of  God  I 
Art  thou  a  man  of  sorrow — (for  the  world 
Doth  call  thee  such) — and  hast  thou  not  been  taught 
By  God  and  sorrow — mighty  as  they  are, 
To  own  the  claims  of  misery? 

Her.  Is  there  power 
With  me  to  save  thy  sons?— Implore  of  Heaven  I 

Elm.  Doth  not  Heaven  work  its  purposes  by  man  ? 
I  teU  thee,  thou  canst  save  them  I— Art  thou  not 
Gonzalez'  counsellor  ? — Unto  him  thy  words 
Are  e'en  as  oracles 


144  THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA 

jfitr.  And  therefore  ? — Speak  I 
The  noble  daughter  of  Pelayo's  line 
Hath  nought  to  ask,  unworthy  of  the  name 
Which  is  a  nation's  heritage. — Dost  thou  shrink  ? 

Elm.  Have  pity  on  me,  father  ! — I  must  speak 
That,  from  the  thought  of  which,  but  yesterday. 
I  had  recoiled  in  scom  ! — But  this  is  past. 
Oh  1  we  grow  humble  in  our  agonies, 
And  to  the  dust — their  birth-place — bow  the  heads 
That  wore  the  crown  of  glory  ! — I  am  weak — 
My  chastening  is  far  more  than  I  can  bear. 

Her.  These  are  no  times  for  weakness.    On  our  hills 
The  ancient  cedars,  in  their  gathered  might, 
Are  battling.with  the  tempest ;  and  the  flower 
Which  cannot  meet  its  driving  blast  must  die. — 
But  thou  hast  drawn  thy  nurture  from  a  stem 
Unwont  to  bend  or  break. — Lift  thy  proud  head, 
Daughter  of  Spain  ! — What  wouldst  thou  with  thy  lord! 

Elm.  Look  not  upon  me  thus ! — I  have  no  power 
To  tell  thee.    Take  thy  keen  disdainful  eye 
Off  from  my  soul  1 — What !  am  I  sunk  to  this  ? 
I,  whose  blood  sprung  from  heroes  I — How  my  sons 
Will  scom  the  mother  that  would  bring  disgrace 
On  their  majestic  line  ! — My  sons  1  my  sons ! — 
Now  is  all  else  forgotten  1 — I  had  once 
A  babe  that  in  the  early  spring-tune  lay 
Sickening  upon  my  bosom,  till  at  last, 
When  earth's  young  flowers  were  opening  to  ths  sun, 
Death  sunk  on  his  meek  eyelid,  and  I  deemed 
All  sorrow  light  to  mine  I — But  now  the  fate 
Of  all  my  children  seems  to  brood  above  me 
In  the  dark  thunder-clouds  ! — Oh  I  I  have  power 
And  voice  •unfaltering  now  to  speak  my  prayer, 
And  ray  last  lingering  hope,  that  thou  shouldst  win 
The  father  to  relent,  to  save  his  sons  I 

Her.  By  yielding  up  the  city? 

Elm.  Rather  say 

By  meeting  that  which  gathers  close  upon  us 
Perchance  one  day  the  sooner ! — Is't  not  so? 
Must  we  not  yield  at  last  ? — How  long  shall  man 
Array  his  single  breast  against  disease, 
And  famine,  and  the  sword  ? 

Her.  How  long?—  While  he, 
Who  shadows  forth  his  power  more  gloriously 
In  the  high  deeds  and  sufferings  of  the  soul 
Than  in  the  circling  heavens,  with  all  their  stars, 
Or  the  far-sounding  deep,  doth  send  abroad 
A  spirit,  which  takes  affliction  for  its  mate, 
In  the  good  cause,  with  solemn  joy  I — How  long?— 
And  who  art  thou,  that,  in  the  littleness 
Of  thine  own  selfish  purpose,  wouldst  set  bounds 
To  the  free  current  of  all  noble  thought 
And  generous  action,  bidding  its  bright  waves 
Be  stayed,  and  flow  no  further  ?— But  the  Power 
.Whose  interdict  is  laid  on  seas  and  orbs, 
To  chain  them  in  from  wandering,  hath  assigned 
No  limits  unto  that  which  man's  high  strength 
Shall,  through  its  aid,  achieve  I 


THE  BIEQE  OF  VALENCIA,  146 

Elm.  Oh  !  there  are  times 
When  all  that  hopeless  courage  can  achieve 
But  sheds  a  mournful  beauty  o'er  the  fate 
Of  those  who  die  in  vain. 

Her.   W     Jes  in  vain 
Upon  his  country's  war-fields,  and  within 
The  shadow  of  her  altars  ? — Feeble  heart  I 
I  tell  thee  that  the  voice  of  noble  blood, 
Thus  poured  for  faith  and  freedom,  hath  a  tone 
Which,  from  the  night  of  ages,  from  the  gulf 
Of  death,  shall  burst,  and  make  its  high  appeal 
Sound  unto  earth  and  heaven  !  Ay,  let  the  land, 
Whose  sons,  through  centuries  of  woe,  have  striven, 
And  perished  by  her  temples,  sink  awhile. 
Borne  down  in  conflict  1 — But  immortal  seed 
Deep,  by  heroic  suffering,  hath  been  sown 
On  all  her  ancient  hills  ;  and  generous  hope 
Knows  that  the  soil,  in  its  good  time,  shall  yet 
Bring  forth  a  glorious  harvest  I — Earth  receives 
Not  one  red  drop,  from  faithful  hearts,  in  vain. 

Elm.  Then  it  must  be ! — And  ye  will  make  those  lives, 
Those  young  bright  lives,  an  offering— to  retard 
Our  doom  one  day ! 

Her.  The  mantle  of  that  day 
May  wrap  the  fate  of  Spain  I 

Elm.  What  led  me  here  ? 
Why  did  I  turn  to  thee  in  my  despair  ? 
Love  hath  no  ties  upon  thee ;  what  had  I 
To  hope  from  thee,  thou  lone  and  childless  man ) 
Go  to  thy  silent  home  1 — there  no  young  voice 
Shall  bid  thee  welcome,  no  light  footstep  spring 
Forth  at  the  sound  of  thine !— What  knows  thy  heart? 

Her.  Woman  I  how  dar'st  thou  taunt  me  with  my  woes? 
Thy  children  too  shall  perish,  and  I  say 
It  shall  be  well  I— Why  tak'st  thou  thought  for  them? 
Wearing  thy  heart,  and  wasting  down  thy  life 
Unto  its  dregs,  and  making  night  thy  time 
Of  care  yet  more  intense,  and  casting  health, 
Unprized,  to  melt  away,  i'  th'  bitter  cup 
Thou  minglest  for  thyself? — Why,  what  hath  earth 
To  pay  thee  back  for  this? — Shall  they  not  live, 
(If  the  sword  spare  them  now)  to  prove  how  soon 
All  love  "may  be  forgotten  ? — Years  of  thought, 
Long  faithful  watchings,  looks  of  tenderness, 
That  changed  not,  though  to  change  be  this  world's  law? 
Shall  they  not  flush  thy  cheek  with  shame,  whose  blood 
Marks,  e'en  like  branding  iron  ? — to  thy  sick  heart 
Make  death  a  want,  as  sleep  to  weariness  ? 
Doth  not  all  hope  end  thus  ? — or  e'en  at  best, 
Will  they  not  leave  thee-? — far  from  thee  seek  room 
For  th'  overflowings  of  their  fiery  souls, 
On  life's  wide  ocean? — Give  the  bounding  steed. 
Or  the  winged  bark  to  youth,  that  his  free  course 
May  be  o'er  hills  and  seas  :  and  weep  thou  not 
In  thy  forsaken  home,  for  the  bright  world 
Lies  all  before  him,  and  be  sure  be  wastes 
No  thought  on  thee  I 

Sim.  5*9*50!  It  to  not  so  \ 


140  THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA. 

Thou  dost  but  torture  me  I — My  sons  are  kind, 
And  brave,  and  gentle. 

Her.  Others  too  have  worn 
The  semblance  of  all  good.    Nay,  stay  thee  yet ;. 
I  will  be  calm,  and  thou  shalt  learn  how  earth, 
The  fruitful  in  all  agonies,  hath  woes 
Which  far  outweigh  thine  own. 

Elm.  It  may  not  be  I 
Whose  grief  is  like  a  mother's  for  her  sons  ? 

Her.  My  son  lay  stretched  upon  his  battle-bier, 
And  there  were  hands  wrung  o  er  him,  which  had  caught 
Their  hue  from  his  young  blood  1 

Elm.  What  tale  is  this  ? 

Her,  Read  you  no  records  in  this  mien,  of  things 
Whose  traces  on  man's  aspect  are  not  such 
As  the  breeze  leaves  on  water  ? — Lofty  birth, 
War,  peril,  power  ?— Affliction's  hand  is  strong, 
If  it  erase  the  haughty  characters 
They  grave  so  deep !— I  have  not  always  been 
That  which  I  am.    The  name  I  bore  is  not 
Of  those  which  perish  I— I  was  once  a  chief— 
A  warrior !— nor  as  now,  a  lonely  man  I 
1  was  a  father  I 

Elm.  Then  thy  heart  can/«// 
Thou  wilt  have  pity  I 

Her,  Should  I  pity  thee  t 
JT4v  sons  will  perish  gloriously—their  blood— 

Elm.  Their  blood  1  my  children's  blood  1— then  speak'st  at  'twere 
Of  casting  down  a  wine-cup,  in  the  mirth 
And  wantonness  of  feasting ! — My  fair  boys  I—- 
Man I  hast  thou  been  a  father? 

Her.  Let  them  die  t 

Let  them  die  now,  thy  children !  so  thy  heart 
Shall  wear  their  beautiful  image  all  undiramed, 
Within  it,  to  the  last  I    Nor  shalt  thou  learn 
The  bitter  lesson,  of  what  worthless  dust 
Are  framed  the  idols,  whose  false  glory  binds 
Earth's  fetters  on  our  souls !— Thou  think'st  it  much 
To  mourn  the  early  dead  ;  but  there  are  tears 
Heavy  with  deeper  anguish  I    We  endow 
Those  whom  we  love,  in  our  fond  passionate  blindness. 
With  power  upon  our  souls,  too  absolute 
To  be  a  mortal's  trust  1    Within  their  hands 
We  lay.  the  flaming  sword,  whose  stroke  alone 
Can  reach  our  hearts,  and  they  are  merciful. 
As  they  are  strong,  that  wield  it  not  to  pierce  us  I — 
Ay,  fear  them,  fear  the  loved  I — Had  I  but  wept 
O  er  my  son's  grave,  as  o'er  a  babe's,  where  teati 
Are  as  spring  dew-drops,  glittering  in  the  sun, 
And  brightening  the  young  verdure,  /  might  stl) 
Have  loved  and  trusted ! 

Elm.  (disdainfully}.  But  he  fell  in  war  I 
And  hath  not  glory  medicine  in  her  cup 
For  the  brief  pangs  of  nature  ? 

Her.  Glory  I— Peace, 

And  listen  !--By  my  side  the  stripling  grew, 
Last  of  my  line.     I  reared  him  to  take  joy 
I'  th1  blaie  of  arms,  as  eagles  train  their  young 


THE  81EQE  OF  VALENCIA. 

To  look  upon  the  day-king  1 — His  quick  blood 

Ev'n  to  his  boyish  cheek  would  mantle  up, 

When  the  heavens  rang  with  trumpets,  and  his  eye 

Flash  with  the  spirit  of  a  race  whose  deeds — 

But  this  availeth  not  I — Yet  he  was  brave. 

I've  seen  him  clear  himself  a  path  in  fight 

As  lightning  through  a  forest,  and  his  plume 

Waved  like  a  torch,  above  the  battle-storm. 

The  soldier's  guide,  when  princely  crests  had  sunk. 

And  banners  were  struck  down. — Around  my  steps 

Floated  his  fame,  like  music,  and  I  lived 

But  in  the  lofty  sound.     But  when  my  heart 

In  one  frail  ark  bad  ventured  all,  when  most 

He  seemed  to  stand  between  my  soul  and  heaven,— 

Then  came  the  thunder-stroke  1 

Elm.  Tis  ever  thus  I 
And  the  unquiet  and  foreboding  sense 
That  thus  'twill  ever  be,  doth  link  itself 
Darkly  with  all  deep  love  1— He  died  ? 

fftr.  Not  sol- 
Death  I  Death  I— Why,  earth  should  be  a  paradise* 
To  make  that  name  so  fearful  I — Had  he  died, 
With  his  young  fame  about  him  for  a  shroud, 
I  had  not  learned  the  might  of  agony, 
To  bring  proud  natures  low  I — No  1  he  fell  off- 
Why  do  I  tell  thee  this  ?— What  right  hast  thou 
To  learn  how  passed  the  glory  from  my  house? 
Yet  listen  I — He  forsook  me  1 — He,  that  was 
As  mine  own  soul,  forsook  me  1  trampled  o'or 
The  ashes  of  his  sires  ! — Ay,  leagued  himself 
E'en  with  the  infidel,  the  curse  of  Spain, 
And,  for  the  dark  eye  of  a  Moorish  maid, 
Abjured  his  faith,  his  God  1— Now  talk  of  death  1 

Elm.  Oh  1    I  can  pity  thee 

Her.  There's  more  to  hear. 
I  braced  the  corslet  o'er  my  heart's  deep  wound, 
And  cast  my  troubled  spirit  on  the  tide 
Of  war  and  high  events,  whose  stormy  waves 
Might  bear  it  up  from  sinking ; 

Elm.  And  ye  met 
No  more  ? 

Her.  Be  still  I — We  did ! — we  met  once  more. 
God  had  his  own  high  purpose  to  fulfil, 
Or  think'st  thou  that  the  sun  in  his  bright  heaven 
Had  looked  upon  such  things? — We  met  once  mort~ 
That  was  an  hour  to  leave  its  lightning-mark 
Seared  upon  brain  and  bosom  1 — there  had  been 
Combat  on  Ebro's  banks,  and  when  the  day 
Sank  in  red  clouds,  it  faded  from  a  field 
Still  held  by  Moorish  lances.    Night  closed  round, 
A  night  of  sultry  darkness,  in  the  shadow 
Of  whose  broad  wing,  ev'n  unto  death  1  strove 
Long  with  a  turbaned  champion  ;  but  my  sword 
Was  heavy  with  God's  vengeance — and  prevailed. 
He  fell — my  heart  exulted — and  1  stood 
In  gloomy  triumph  o'er  him — Nature  gave 
No  sign  of  horror,  for  'twas  Heaven's  decree  I 
He  strove  (Q  speak— but  J  bad  done  the  work 


148  THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA. 

Of  wrath  too  well — yet  in  his  last  deep  moan 

A  dreadful  something  of  familiar  sound 

Came  o'er  my  shuddering  sense. — The  moon  looked  forth, 

And  I  beheld  —speak  not ! — 'twas  he — my  son  I 

My  boy  lay  dying  there  I  He  raised  one  glance, 

And  knew  me — for  he  sought  with  feeble  hand 

To  cover  his  glazed  eyes.    A  darker  veil 

Sank  o'er  them  soon. — I  will  not  have  thy  look 

Fixed  on  me  thus  I — Away ! 

Elm,  Thou  hast  seen  this, 
Thou  hast  done  this — and  yet  thou  liv'st? 

ffer.  I  live  I 

And  know'st  thou  wherefore  ? — On  my  soul  there  feTl 
A  horror  of  great  darkness,  which  shut  out 
All  earth,  and  heaven,  and  hope.    I  cast  away 
The  spear  and  helm,  and  made  the  cloister's  shade 
The  home  of  my  despair.    But  a  d6ep  voice 
Came  to  me  through  the  gloom,  and  sent  its  tones 
Far  through  my  bosom's  depths.    And  I  awoke, 
Ay,  as  the  mountain  cedar  doth  shake  off 
Its  weight  of  wintry  snow,  e'en  so  I  shook 
Despondence  from  my  soul,  and  knew  myself 
.Sealed  by  that  blood  wherewith  my  hands  were  dyed* 
And  set  apart,  and  fearfully  marked  out 
Unto  a  mighty  task  !— To  rouse  the  soul 
Of  Spain,  as  from  the  dead :  and  to  lift  up 
The  cross,  her  sign  of  vietory,  on  the  hills, 
Gathering  her  sons  to  battle  I — And  my  voice 
Must  be  as  freedom's  trumpet  on  the  winds, 
From  Roncesvalles  to  the  blue  sea-waves 
Where  Calpe  looks  on  Afric';  till  the  land 
Have  filled  her  cup  of  vengeance  I — Ask  me  rwu 
To  yield  the  Christian  city,  that  its  fanes 
May  rear  the  minaret  in  the  face  of  Heaven  I— 
But  death  shall  have  a  bloodier  vintage-feast 
Ere  that  day  come  1 

Elm.  I  ask  thee  this  no  more, 
For  I  am  hopeless  now. — But  yet  one  boon- 
Hear  me,  by  all  thy  woes  1 — Thy  voice  hath  power 
Through  the  wide  city — here  I  cannot  rest  :— 
Aid  me  to  pass  the  gates  1 

Her.  And  wherefore? 

Elm.  Thou, 

That  vert  a  father,  and  art  now — alone  I 
Canst  thou  ask  "  wherefore?" — Ask  the  wretch  whose  sandJ 
Have  not  an  hour  to  run,  whose  failing  limbs 
Have  but  one  earthly  journey  to  perform, 
Why,  on  his  pathway  to  the  place  of  death, 
Ay,  when  the  very  axe  is  glistening  cold 
Upon  his  dizzy  sight,  his  pale,  parched  li.p 
Implores  a  cup  of  water? — Why,  the  stroke 
Which  trembles  o'er  him  in  Itself  shall  bring 
Oblivion  of  all  wants,  yet  who  denies 
Nature's  last  prayer  ? — I  tell  thee  that  the  thirst 
Which  burns  my  spirit  up  is  agony 
To  be  endured  no  more"1 — And  I  must  look 
Upon  my  children's  faces,  1  oust  hear 
Their  voices,  ere  they  perish  I— But  hath.  Heaven 


THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA. 

Decreed  that  they  must  perish  ? — Who  shall  say 
If  in  yon  Moslem  camp  there  beats  no  heart 
Which  prayers  and  tears  may  melt  ? 

Her.  There  !— With  the  Moor ! 
Let  him  fill  up  the  measure  of  his  guilt  I— 
Tis  madness  all  1 — How  wouldst  thou  pass  th  array 
Of  armed  foes  ? 

Elm.  Oh  !  free  doth  sorrow  pass, 
Free  and  unquestioned,  through  a  suffering  world  I 

Her.  This  must  not  be.    Enough  of  woe  is  laid 
E'en  now,  upon  my  lord's  heroic  soul, 
For  man  to  bear,  unsinking.     Press  thou  not 
Too  heavily  th'  o'erburthened  heart. — Away  1 
Bow  down  the  knee,  and  send  thy  prayers  for  strength 
Up  to  Heaven's  gate.— Farewell  I  [Exit  HERNANDEZ 

Elm.  Are  all  men  thus  ? — 
Why,  wer't  not  better  they  should  fall  e'en  now 
Than  live  to  shut  their  hearts,  in  haughty  scorn, 
Against  the  sufferer's  pleadings? — But  no,  no  I 
Who  can  be  like  this  man,  that  slew  his  son, 
Yet  wears  his  life  still  proudly,  and  a  soul 
Untamed  upon  his  brow  ? 

(After  a  pause.) 

There's  one,  whose  arms 
Have  borne  my  children  in  their  infancy, 
And  on  whose  knees  they  sported,  and  whose  hand 
Hath  led  them  oft — a  vassal  of  their  sire's ; 
And  I  will  seek  him  ;  he  may  lend  me  aid, 
When  all  beside  pass  on. 

DIRGE  HEARD  WITHOUT. 

Thou  to  thy  rest  art  gone, 
High  heart  I  and  what  are  we, 
While  o'er  our  heads  the  storm  sweeps  o>» 
That  we  should  mourn  for  thee  ? 

Free  grave  and  peaceful  bier 
To  the  buried  son  of  Spain  ! 
To  those  that  live,  the  lance  and  spear, 
And  well  if  not  the  chain  1 

Be  theirs  to  weep  the  dead 
As  they  sic  beneath  their  vines, 
Whose  flowery  land  hath  borne  no  tread 
Of  spoilers  o'er  its  shrines  I 

Thou  hast  thrown  off  the  load 
Which  we  must  yet  sustain, 
And  pour  our  blood  w?  ere  thine  hath  flowed, 
Too  blest  if  not  in  vain  t 

We  give  thee  holy  rite, 
Slow  knell,  and  chanted  strain  I—- 
For those  that  fall  to-morrow  night, 
May  be  left  no  funeral-train. 

Again,  when  trumpets  wake, 
We  must  brace  our  armour  on  ; 
But  a  deeper  note  thy  sleep  must  break— 
Thou  to  thy  rest  art  gone  I 


150  THE  8IEOE  OP  VALENCIA. 

Happier  in  this  than  all, 
That,  now  thy  race  is  ran, 
Upon  thy  name  no  stain  may  fall, 
Thy  work  hath  well  been  done ! 

Elm.  "  Thy  work  hath  well  been  done  1  "—to  tLoti  uiayst  rest  I— 
There  is  a  solemn  lesson  in  those  words — 
But  now  I  may  not  pause.  \  Rxit  EJLMINA. 


SCENE— A  Street  in  the  City. 
HERNANDEZ,  GONZALEZ. 

Her.  Would  they  not  hear  ? 

Gort.  They  heard,  as  one  that  stands 
By  the  cold  grave  which  hath  but  newly  closed 
O'er  bis  la"t  friend,  doth  hear  some  passer-by 
Bid  him  te  comforted  1 — Their  hearts  have  died 
Within  them  I — We  must  perish,  not  as  those 
That  fall  when  battle's  voice  doth  shake  the  hills, 
And  peal  through  Heaven's  great  arch,  but  silently, 
And  with  a  wasting  of  the  spirit  down, 
A  quenching,  day  by  day,  of  some  bright  spark, 
Which  lit  us  on  our  toils  I — Reproach  me  not ; 
My  soul  is  darkened  with  a  heavy  cloud — 
Yet  fear  not  I  shall  yield  1 

Her.  Breathe  not  the  word, 
Save  in  proud  scorn  1 — Each  bitter  day,  o'erpassed 
By  slow  endurance,  is  a  triumph  won 
For  Spain's  red  cross.    And  be  of  trusting  heart  I 
A  few  brief  hours,  and  those  that  turned  away 
In  cold  despondence,  shrinking  from  your  voice, 
May  crowd  around  their  leader,  and  demand 
To  be  arrayed  for  battle.    We  must  watch 
For  the  swift  impulse,  and  await  its  tune, 
As  the  bark  waits  the  ocean's.    You  have  chosen . 
To  kindle  up  their  souls,  an  hour,  perchance, 
When  they  were  weary ;  they  had  cast  aside 
Their  Arms  to  slumber  ;   or  a  knell,  just  then 
With  its  deep  hollow  tone,  had  made  the  blood 
Creep  shuddering  through  their  veins  ;  or  they  had  caught 
A  glimpse  of  some  new  meteor,  and  shaped  forth 
Strange  omens  from  its  blaze. 

Gon.  Alas  I  the  cause 
Lies  deeper  in  their  misery  1 — I  have  seen, 
In  my  night's  course  through  this  beleaguered  dry 
Things  whose  remembrance  doth  not  pass  away 
As  vapours  from  the  mountains. — There  were  some 
That  sat  beside  their  dead,  with  eyes,  wherein 
Grief  had  ta'en  place  of  sight,  and  shut  out  all 
But  its  own  ghastly  object.    To  my  voice 
Some  answered  with  a  fierce  and  bitter  laugh, 
As  men  whose  agonies  were  made  to  pass 
rhe  bounds  of  sufferance,  by  some  reckless  word, 
Dropt  from  the  light  of  spirit. — Others  lay — 
Why  should  I  tell  thee,  father  1  how  despair 
Can  bring  the  lofty  brow  of  manhood  down 


THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA.  15] 

Unto  the  very  dust  ? — and  yet  for  this, 
Fear  not  that  I  embrace  my  doom — O  God  I 
That  'twere  my  doom  alone  I — with  less  of  fixed 
And  solemn  fortitude. — Lead  on,  prepare 
The  holiest  rites  of  faith,  that  I  by  them 
Once  more  may  consecrate  my  sword,  my  life,— 
But  what  are  these  ? — Who  hath  not  dearer  lives 
Twined  with  his  own  ? — I  shall  be  lonely  soon — 
Childless  I — Heaven  wills  it  so.     Let  us  begone. 
Perchance  before  the  shrine  my  heart  may  beat 
With  a  less  troubled  motion. 

[Exeunt  GONZALEZ  and  HERNANDEZ. 


SCENE.— A  Tent  in  Uu  Moorish  Camp. 
ABDULLAH,  ALPHONSO,  CARLOS. 

Abd.  These  are  bold  words  :  but  hast  thou  looked  on  death; 
Fair  stripling  7— On  thy  cheek  and  sunny  brow 
Scarce  fifteen  summers  of  their  laughing  course 
Have  left  light  traces.     If  thy  shaft  hath  pierced 
The  ibex  of  the  mountains,  if  thy  step 
Hath  climbed  some  eagle's  nest,  and  thou  hast  made 
His  nest  thy  spoil  'tis  much  I — And  fear'st  thou  not 
The  leader  of  the  mighty  ? 

Alpk.  I  have  been 

Reared  amongst  fearless  men,  and  midst  the  rocks 
And  the  wild  hills,  whereon  my  fathers  fought 
And  won  their  battles.    There  are  glorious  tales 
Told  of  their  deeds,  and  I  have  learned  them  alL 
How  should  I  fear  thee.  Moor  ? 

Abd.  So,  thou  hast  seen 
Fields,  where  the  combat's  roar  hath  died  away 
Into  the  whispering  breeze,  and  where  wild  flowers 
Bloom  o'er  forgotten  graves  ! — But  know'st  thou  aught 
Of  those,  where  sword  from  crossing  sword  strikes  fu«, 
And  leaders  are  borne  down,  and  rushing  steeds 
Trample  the  life  from  out  the  mighty  hearts 
That  ruled  the  storm  so  late  ?— Speak  not  of  death. 
Till  thou  hast  looked  on  such. 

Alph.  I  was  not  bom 

A  shepherd's  son,  to  dwell  with  pipe  and  crook, 
And  peasant-men,  amidst  the  lowly  vales  ; 
Instead  of  ringing  clarions,  and  bright  spears, 
And  crested  knights  I — I  am  of  princely  race, 
And,  if  my  father  would  have  heard  my  suit, 
I  tell  thee,  infidel  1  that  long  ere  now 
I  should  have  seen  how  lances  meet,  and  sword? 
Do  the  field's  work. 

Abd.  Boy  I  know'st  thou  there  are  sights 
A  thousand  times  more  fearful? — men  may  die 
Full  proudly,  when  the  skies  and  mountains  ring 
To  bkttlc-horn  and  tecbir.* — But  not  all 


*Tecbir.  tht  war-cry  of  the  Moors  and  Ar»t&. 


152  THE  8IEOE  OF  VALENCIA.    . 

So  pass  away  in  glory.    There  are  those 
'Midst  the  dead  silence  of  pale  multitudes, 
Led  forth  in  fetters — dost  thou  mark  me,  boy  ? — 
To  take  their  last  look  of  th;  all-gladdening  sun, 
And  bow,  perchance,  the  stately  head  of  youth 
Unto  the  death  of  shame  I — Hadst  thou  seen  this 

Alph.  (to  Carlos).  Sweet  brother,  God  is  with  us— fear  thou  not! 
We  have  had  heroes  for  our  sires — this  man 
Should  not  behold  us  tremble. 

Aid.  There  are  means 
To  tame  the  loftiest  natures.    Yet  again 
I  ask  thee,  wilt  thou,  from  beneath  the  walls, 
Sue  to  thy  sire  for  life  ;  or  wouldst  thou  die, 
With  this,  thy  brother  ? 

Alph.  Moslem  1  on  the  hills, 
Around  my  father's  castle,  I  have  heard 
The  mountain-peasants,  as  they  dressed  the  vines, 
Or  drove  the  goats,  by  rock  and  torrent  home, 
Singing  their  ancient  songs  ;  and  these  were  all 
Of  the  Cid  Campeador  ;  and  how  his  sword 
Tizona  cleared  its  way  through  turbaned  hosts, 
And  captured  Afric's  kings,  and  how  he  won 
Valencia  from  the  Moor. — I  will  not  shame 
The  blood  we  draw  from  him  I 

(A  Moorish  Soldier  enttrt.) 

Soldier.  Valencia's  lord 
Sends  messengers,  my  chief. 
A  bd.  Conduct  them  hither. 

{The  Soldier  goes  out,  and  re-enters  with  ELMINA,  disguised,  and  an  Attendant 

Carlos  (springing forward  to  the  Attendant).  Ob  1  take  me  hence, 

Diego  ;  take  me  hence 
With  thee,  that  I  may  see  my  mother's  face 
At  morning,  when  I  wake.     Here  dark-browed  men 
Frown  strangely,  with  their  cruel  «yes,  upon  us. 
Take  me  with  thee,  for  thou  art  good  and  kind, 
And  well  I  know  thou  lov'st  me,  my  Diego  I 

Abd.  Peace,  boy  ! — What  tidings,  Christian,  from  thy  lord  ? 
Is  he  grown  humbler,  doth  he  set  the  lives 
Of  these  fair  nurslings  at  a  city's  worth  ? 

Alph.   (rushing  forward  impatiently).  Say  not  he  doth  — Yet 

wherefore  art  thou  here  ? 
If  it  be  so — I  could  weep  burning  tears 
For  very  shame  I — If  this  can  be,  return"  I 
Tell  him,  of  all  his  wealth,  his  battle-spoils, 
I  will  but  ask  a  war-horse  and  a  sword, 
And  that  beside  him  in  the  mountain  chase, 
And  in  his  halls  and  at  his  stately  feasts, 
My  place  shall  be  no  more  I — but  no  ! — I  wrong, 
I  wrong  my  father  I — Moor  !  believe  it  not  1 
He  is  a  champion  of  the  cross  and  Spain, 
Sprung  from  the  Cid  ; — and  I  too,  I  can  die 
As  a  -warrior's  high-born  child  1 

Elm.  Alas !  alas  ! 

And  wouldst  thou  die,  thus  early  die,  fair  boy? 
vWhat  hath  life  done  to  thee,  that  thou  shouldst  cast 


TJTE  8IEGE  OF  VALENCIA.  153 

(ts  flower  away,  in  very  scorn  of  heart, 
Ere  yet  the  blight  be  come  ? 

Alph.  -That  voice  doth  sound—— 

A od.  Stranger,  who  art  thou  ? — this  is  mockery  !  speak  I 

Sim.  (throwing  off  a  mantle  and  helmet  and  embracing  het  »0»«) 

My  boys  1  whom  I  have  reared  through  many  hours 
Of  silent  joys  and  sorrows,  and  deep  thoughts 
Untold  and  unimagined  ;  let  me  die 
With  you,  now  I  have  held  you  to  my  heart, 
And  seen  once  more  the  faces,  in  whose  light 
My  soul  hath  lived  for  years ! 

Carlos.  Sweet  mother  I  now 
Thou  shall  not  leave  us  more. 

Abd.  Enough  of  this  I 

Woman  I  what  seek'st  thou  here  ?— How  hast  thou  dared 
To  front  the  mighty  thus  amidst  his  hosts  ? 

Elm.  Think 'st  thou  there  dwells  no  courage  but  in  breasts 
That  set  their  mail  against  the  ringing  spears, 
When  helmets  are  struck  down  ?    Thou  little  know'sz 
Of  nature's  marvels  ! — Chief  I  my  heart  is  nerved 
To  make  its  way  through  things  which  warrior-men,— 
Ay,  they  that  master  death  by  field  or  flood, 
Would  look  on,  ere  they  braved  I — I  have  no  thought, 
No  sense  of  fear ! — Thou'rt  mighty  I  but  a  soul 
Wound  up  like  mine  is  mightier,  in  the  power 
Of  that  one  feeling,  poured  through  all  its  depths, 
Than  monarchs  with  their  hosts  I — Am  I  not  come 
To  die  with  these,  my  children  ? 

Abd.  Doth  thy  faith 

Bid  thee  do  this,  fond  Christian  ?    Hast  thou  not* 
The  means  to  save  them  ? 

Elm.  I  have  prayers  and  tears, 
And  agonies  I — and  He — my  God — the  God 
Whose  hand,  or  soon  or  late,  doth  find  its  hour 
To  bow  the  crested  head — hath  made  these  things 
Most  powerful  in  a  world  where  all  must  learn 
That  one  deep  language,  by  the  storm  called  forth 
From  the  bruised  reeds  of  earth  I— For  thee,  perchance, 
Affliction's  chastening  lesson  hath  not  yet 
Been  laid  upon  thy  heart,  and  thou  may'st  love 
To  see  the  creatures,  by  its  might  brought  low, 
Humbled  before  thee.  [She  throws  herself  at  hit/eet. 

Conqueror  I  1  can  kneel  I 
I,  that  drew  birth  from  princes,  bow  myself 
E'en  tp  thy  feet  I    Call  in  thy  chiefs,  thy  slaves, 
If  this  will  swell  thy  triumph,  to  behold 
The  blood  of  kings,  of  heroes,  thus  abased  I 
Do  this,  but  spare  my  sons  1 

Alph.  (attempting  to  raise  her).  Thou  shouldst  not  kned 
Unto  this  infidel  I — Rise,  rise,  my  mother  I 
This  sight  doth  shame  our  house  ! 

Abd.  Thou  daring  boy  I 

They  that  in  arms  have  taught  thy  father's  land 
How  chains  are  worn,  shall  school  that  haughty  mien 
Unto  another  language. 

Elm.  Peace,  my  son  I 

Have  pity  on  my  heart  1 — Oh,  pardon,  chief  i 
He  is  of  noble  blood  I — Hear,  bear  me  yet  I 


154  THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA 

Are  there  no  lives  through  which  the  shafts  of  Heaven 

May  reach  your  soul  ? — He  that  loves  aught  on  earth, 

Dares  far  too  much,  if  he  be  merciless  I 

Is  it  for  those  whose  frail  mortality 

Must  one  day  strive  alone  with  God  and  death, 

To  shut  their  souls  against  th'  appealing  voice 

Of  nature,  in  her  anguish  ? — Warrior  1  man  ! 

To  you  too,  ay,  and  haply  with  your  hosts, 

By  thousands  and  ten  thousands  marshalled  round, 

And  your  strong  armour  on,  shall  come  that  stroke 

Which  the  lance  wards  not ! — Where  shall  your  high  haart, 

Find  refuge  then,  if  in  the  day  of  might 

Woe  hath  lain  prostrate,  bleeding  at  your  feet, 

And  you  have  pitied  not  ? 

Abd.  The     are  vain  words. 

Elm.  Have  you  no  children? — fear  you  not  to  bring 
The  lightning       their  heads  ? — In  your  own  land 
Doth  no  fond  mother,  from  the  tents  beneath 
Vour  native  palms,  look  o'er  the  deserts  out, 
To  greet  your  homeward  step  ? — You  have  not  yet 
Forgot  so  utterly,  her  patient  love — 
For  is  not  woman's,  in  all  climes,  the  same  ? — 
That  you  should  scorn  my  prayer  I— Oh,  Heaven  I  his  eye 
Doth  wear  no  mercy  I 

Abd.  Then  it  mocks  you  not. 
I  have  swept  o'er  the  mountains  of  year  land. 
Leaving  my  traces,  as  the  visitings 
Of  storms  upon  them  I — Shall  I  now  be  stayed  I 
Know,  unto  me  it  were  as  light  a  thing, 
In  this,  my  course,  to  quench  your  children's  lives, 
As,  Journeying  through  a  forest,  to  break  off 
The  young  wild  branches  that  obstruct  the  way 
With  their  green  sprays  and  leaves. 

Elm.  Are  there  such  hearts 
Amongst  Thy  works,  O  God  ? 

Abd.  Kneel  not  to  me, 
Kneel  to  your  lord  1  on  his  resolves  doth  hang 
His  children's  doom.     He  may  be  lightly  won 
By  a  few  bursts  of  passionate  tears  and  words. 

Elm.  (rising  indignantly).  Speak  not  of  noble  men  ! — he  bears  n  soul 
Stronger  than  love  or  death. 

Alpk.  (with  exultation).  I  knew  'twas  thus ! 
He  could  not  fail  1 

Elm.  There  is  no  mercy,  none, 
On  this  cold  earth ! — To  strive  with  such  a  world, 
Hearts  should  be  void  of  love  I — We  will  go  hence, 
My  children  I  we  are  summoned.     Lay  your  heads, 
In  their  young  radiant  beauty,  once  again 
To  rest  upon  this  bosom.     He  that  dwells 
Beyond  the  clouds  which  press  us  darkly  round. 
Will  yet  have  pity,  and  before  His  face 
We  three  will  stand  together  I    Moslenj  I  now 
Let  the  stroke  fall  at  once  1 

Abd.  'Tis  thine  own  will. 
These  might  e'en  yet  be  spared. 

Elm.   Thou  wilt  not  spare  1 
And  he  beneath  whose  eye  their  childhood  grew, 
And  in  whose  paths  they  sported,  and  whose  ear 


THE  SIEQE  OF  VALENCIA.  155 

From  their  first  lisping  accents  caught  the  sound  > 
Of  that  word — Father— once  a  name  of  love- 
Is Men  shall  call  him  steadfast. 

Aid.  Hath  the  blast 

Of  sudden  trumpets  ne'er  at  dead  of  night, 
When  the  land's  watchers  feared  no  hostile  step, 
Startled  the  slumberers  from  their  dreamy  worldly 
In  cities,  whose  heroic  lords  have  been 
Steadfast  as  thine. 

'  Elm.  There's  meaning  in  thine  eye, 
More  than  thy  words. 

Abd.  (pointing  to  the  city).  Look  to  yon  towers  and  walls. 
Think  you  no  hearts  within  their  limits  pine, 
Weary  of  hopeless  warfare,  and  prepared 
To  burst  the  feeble  links  which  bind  them  still 
Unto  endurance? 

Elm.  Thou  hast  said  too  well. 
But  what  of  this  ? 

Abd.  Then  there  are  those  to  whom 
The  Prophet's  armies  not  as  foes  would  pass 
Yon  gates,  but  as  deliverers.    Might  tliey  not 
In  some  still  hour,  when  weariness  takes  rest, 
Be  won  to  welcome  us  ? — Your  children's  steps 
May  yet  bound  lightly  through  their  father's  hall*. 

A  Iph.  (indignantly).  Thou  treacherous  Mow ! 

Elm.  Let  me  not  thus  be  tried 
Beyond  all  strength,  oh,  Heaven  1 

Abd.  Now,  'tis  for  thee, 
Thou  Christian  mother  I  on  thy  sons  to  pass 
The  sentence — life  or  death  1 — the  price  is  set 
On  their  young  blood,  and  rests  within  thy  hands. 

A  Iph.  Mother  I  thou  tremblest  1 

Abd.  Hath  thy  heart  resolved  ? 

Elm.  (covering  her  face  with  her  hands).  My  boy's  proud  eye  is  on 

me,  and  the  things 

Which  rush,  in  stormy  darkness,  through  my  soul, 
Shrink  from  his  glance.     1  cannot  answer  hen. 

Abd.  ComeJbrth.    We'll  commune  elsewhere. 

Carlos  (to  his  mother).  Wilt  thou  go  ? 
Oh  I  let  me  follow  thee ! 

Elm.  Mine  own  fair  child  1 — 

Now  that  thine  eyes  have  poured  once  more  on  mine 
The  light  of  their  young  smile,  and  thy  sweet  voice 
Hath  sent  its  gentle  music  through  my  soul. 
And  I  have  felt  the  twining  of  thine  arms — 
How  shall  I  leave  thee? 

Abd.  Leave  him,  as  'twere  but 
For  a  brief  slumber,  to  behold  his  face 
At  morning,  with  the  sun's. 

Alph.  Thou  hast  no  look 
For  me,  my  mother  1 

Elm.  Oh  I  that  I  should  live 
To  say,  I  dare  not  look  on  thee  I — Farewel 
My  first  born,  fare  thee  well  I 

A  Iph.  Yet,  yet  beware  I 
It  were  a  grief  more  heavy  on  thy  soul. 
That  I  should  blush  for  thee,  than  o'er  my  grave 
That  thou  shouldst  proudly  weep ! 


156  THE  RTEOE  OF  VALENCIA. 

AM.  Away  I  we  trifle  here.    The  night  wanes  fast* 
Come  forth  i 

Elm.  One  more  embrace !    My  sons,  farewell ! 

[Exeunt  ABDULLAH  with  ELMINA  and  her  Atttndanl 

Alpk.  Hear  me  yet  once,  my  mother  I 

Art  thou  gone  ? 
But  one  word  more  I  \He  rushes  out,  followed  by  CARLOS. 


SCENE — The  Garden  of  a  Palace  in  Valencia. 
XIMENA,  THERESA. 

Ther.  Stay  yet  awhile.    A  purer  air  doth  rove 
Here  through  the  myrtles  whispering,  and  the  limes, 
And  shaking  sweetness  from  the  orange  boughs, 
Than  waits  you  in  the  city. 

Xim.  There  are  those 
In  their  last  need,  and  on  their  bed  of  death, 
At  which  no  hand  doth  minister  but  mine 
That  wait  me  in  the  city.     Let  us  hence. 

Ther.  You  have  been  wont  to  love  the  music  made 
By  founts,  and  rustling  foliage,  and  soft  winds, 
Breathing  of  citron-groves.    And  will  you  turn 
From  these  to  scenes  of  death  ? 

Xim.  To  me  the  voice 

Of  summer,  whispering  through  young  flowers  and  leaves, 
Now  speaks  too  deep  a  language  1  and  of  all 
Its  dreamy  and  mysterious  melodies, 
The  breathing  soul  is  sadness  ! — I  have  felt 
That  summons  through  my  spirit,  after  which 
The  hues  of  earth  are  changed,  and  all  her  sounds 
Seem  fraught  with  secret  warnings? — There  is  caus-t 
That  I  should  bend  my  footsteps  to  the  scenes 
Where  Death  is  busy,  taming  warrior-hearts, 
And  pouring  winter  through  the  fiery  blood, 
And  fettering  the  strong  arm  ! — For  now  no  sigh 
In  the  dull  air,  nor  floating  cloud  in  heaven,— 
No,  not  the  lightest  raurmur  of  a  leaf, 
But  of  his  angel's  silent  coming  bears 
Some  token  to  my  soul. — But  nought  of  this 
Unto  my  mother  I — These  are  awful  hours  I 
And  oa  their  heavy  steps,  afflictions  crowd 
With  such  dark  pressure,  there  is  left  no  room 
For  one  grief  more. 

Ther.  Sweet  lady,  talk  not  thus  i 
Your  eye  this  morn  doth  wear  a  calmer  light, 
There's  more  of  life  in  its  clear  tremulous  ray 
Than  I  have  marked  of  late.     Nay,  go  not  yet  ; 
Rest  by  this  fountain,  where  the  laurels  dip 
Their  glossy  leaves.     A  fresher  gale  doth  spring 
From  the  transparent  waters,  dashing  round 
Fheir  silvery  spray,  with  a  sweet  voice  of  coolness 
O'er  the  pale  glistening  marble.     'Twill  call  up 
Faint  bloom,  if  but  a  moment's,  to  your, cheek. 
Rest  here,  ere  you  go  forth,  and  I  will  sing 
The  melody  you  love 


THE  SIEQE  OF  VALENCIA.  157 

THERESA  sings. 

Why  is  the  Spanish  maiden's  grave 

So  far  from  her  own  bright  land? 
The  sunny  flowers  that  o'er  it  wave 

Were  sown  bv  no  kindred  hand. 

Tis  not  the  orange-bough  that  sends 

Its  breath  on  the  sultry  air, 
Tis  not  the  myrtle-stem  that  bends 

To  the  breeze  of  evening  there  1 

But  the  Rose  of  Sharon's  eastern  bloom 

By  the  silent  dwelling  fades, 
And  none  but  strangers  pass  the  tomb 

Which  the  Palm  of  ludah  shades. 

The  lowly  Cross,  with  flowers  o'ergrown, 

Marks  well  that  place  of  rest ; 
But  who  hath  graved,  on  its  mossy  stone, 

A  sword,  a  helm,  a  crest  ? 

These  are  the  trophies  of  a  chief, 

A  lord  of  Jhe  axe  and  spear  ! — 
Some  blossom  plucked,  some  faded  leaf, 

Should  grace  a  maiden's  bier  1 

Scorn  not  her  tomb— deny  not  her 

The  honours  of  the  brave  I 
O'er  that  forsaken  sepulchre, 

Banner  and  plume  might  wave. 

She  bound  the  steel,  in  battle  tried, 

Her  fearless  heart  above, 
And  stood  with  brave  men,  side  by  side. 

In  the  strength  and  faith  of  love  I 

That  strength  prevailed — that  faith  was  blesio-j 

True  was  the  javelin  thrown  ; 
Yet  pierced  it  not  her  warrior's  breast, 

She  met  it  with  her  own  1 

And  nobly  won,  where  heroes  fell 

In  arms  for  the  holy  shrine, 
A  death  which  saved  what  she  loved  so  well, 

And  a  grave  in  Palestine. 

Then  let  the  Rose  of  Sharon  spread 

Its  breast  \o  the  glowing  air, 
And  the  Palm  of  Judah  lift  its  head, 

Green  and  immortal  there  ! 

And  let  yon  grey  stone,  undefaced, 

With  its  trophy  mark  the  scene, 
Telling  the  pilgrim  of  the  waste. 

Where  Love  and  Death  have  been. 

JCttt.  Those  notes  were  wont  to  make  my  heart  beat  quick. 
A3  at  a  voice  of  victory  ;  but  to-day 
The  spirit  of  the  song  u  changed,  and  seems 


158  THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA. 

All  mournful.    Oh  !  that  ere  my  early  grave 
Shuts  out  the  sunbeam,  I  may  hear  one  peal 
Of  the  Castilian  trumpet,  ringing  forth 
Beneath  my  father's  banner  1 — In  that  sound 
Were  life  to  you,  sweet  brothers  1 — But  for  me—- 
Come on — our  tasks  await  us.    They  who  know 
Their  hours  are  numbered  out,  have  little  time 
To  give  the  vague  and  slumberous  languor  way, 
Which  doth  steal  o'er  them  in  the  breath  of  flovrci^ 
And  whisper  of  soft  winds. 

ELMINA  enters  hurriedly. 

Elm.  This  air  will  calm  my  spirit,  ere  yet  I  meet 
His  eye,  which  must  be  met. — Thou  here,  Ximena  i 

[Ske  starts  back  on  seeing  XIMENA, 

Xim.  Alas  t  my  mother !    In  that  hurrying  step 
And  troubled  glance  I  read — 

Elm.  (wildly).  Thou  read'st  it  not  1 
Why,  who  would  live,  if  unto  mortal  eye 
The  things  lay  glaring,  which  within  our  hearts 
We  treasure  up  for  God's? — Thou  read'st  it  not  I 
I  say,  thou  canst  not  I— There's  not  one  on  earth 
Shall  know  the  thoughts,  w   en  for  themselves  have  made 
And  kept  dark  places  in  the  very  breast 
Whereon  he  hath  laid  his  slumber,  till  the  hour 
When  the  graves  open  1 

Xim,  Mother !  what  is  this  ? 
Alas  1  your  eye  is  wandering,  and  your  cheek 
Flushed,  as  with  fever  t    To  your  woes  the  night 
Hath  brought  no  rest. 

Elm.  Rest  ?— who  should  rest? — not  he 
That  holds  one  earthly  blessing  to  his  heart 
Nearer  than  life ! — No  1  if  this  world  have  aught- 
Of  bright  or  precious,  let  not  him  who  calls 
Such  things  his  own,  take  rest  1 — Dark  spirits  keep  watch, 
And  they  to  whom  fair  honour,  chivalrous  fame, 
Were  as  heaven's  air,  the  vital  element 
Wherein  they  breathed,  may  wake,  and  find  their  souls 
Made  marks  for  human  scorn  I — Will  they  bear  on 
With  life  struck  down,  and  thus  disrobed  of  all 
Its  glorious  drapery? — Who  shall  tell  us  this? 
— Will  he  so  bear  it? 

Xim.  Mother  1  let  us  kneel, 
And  blend  our  hearts  in  prayer  ! — What  else  is  left 
To  mortals  when  the  dark  hour's  might  is  on  them  ? 
—Leave  us,  Theresa. — Grief  like  this  doth  find 
Its  balm  in  solitude.  [Exit  THERESA. 

My  mother  1  peace 

Is  heaven's  benignant  answer  to  the  cry 
Of  wounded  spirits.    Wilt  thou  kneel  with  me? 

Elm.  Away  1  'tis  but  for  souls  unstained  to  wear 
Heaven's  tranquil  image  on  their  depths. — The  stream 
Of  my  dark  thoughts,  all  broken  by  the  storm, 
Reflects  but  clouds  and  lightnings !— Didst  thou  speak 
Of  peace  ? — 'tis  fled  from  earth  1 — but  there  is  joy  I 
Wild,  troubled  joy  1— Ajad  who  shall  know,  my  child  I 


TEE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA.  15.9 

It  is  not  happiness  ? — Why,  our  own  hearts 
Will  keep  the  secret  close  I— Joy,  joy  I  if  but 
To  leave  this  desolate  city,  with  its  dull 
Slow  knells  and  dirges,  and  to  breathe  again 
Th'  untainted  mountain-air — But  hush  !  the  trees, 
The  flowers,  the  waters,  must  hear  nought  of  this  I 
They  are  full  of  voices,  and  will  whisper  things 
We'll  speak  of  it  no  more. 

Xtm.  Oh  1  pitying  Heaven  ! 
This  grief  doth  shake  her  reason  I 

Elm.  (starting).  Hark  1  a  step  1 
Tis — 'tis  thy  father's  !— come  away — not  now— 
He  must  not  see  us  now  I 

Xim.  Why  should  this  be  ? 

GONZALEZ  tnters,  and  detains  ELM  IN  A. 

Gon.  Elmina,  dost  thou  shun  me  ? — Have  we  not, 
E'en  from  the  hopeful  and  the  sunny  time 
When  youth  was  as  a  glory  round  our  brows, 
Held  on  through  life  together  ?— And  is  this, 
When  eve  is  gathenng  round  us,  with  the  gloor« 
Of  stormy  clouds,  a  time  to  part  our  steps 
Upon  the  darkening  wild  ?    ' 

Elm.  (coldly).  There  needs  not  this. 
Why  shouldst  thou  think  I  shunned  thee  ? 

Gon    Should  the  love 

That  shone  o'er  many  years,  th'  unfading  love, 
Whose  only  change  hath  been  from  gladdening  smiles 
To  mingling  sorrows  and  sustaining  strength, 
Thus  lightly  be  forgotten  ? 

Elm.  Speak'st  thou  thus?— 
I  have  knelt  before  thee  with  that  very  plea, 
When  it  availed  me  not  I— But  there  are  things 
Whose  very  breathings  on  the  soul  erase 
All  record  of  past  love,  save  the  chill  sense, 
Th'  unquiet  memory  of  its  wasted  faith, 
And  vain  devotedness  ! — Ay  I  they  that  fix 
Affection's  perfect  trust  on  aught  of  earth, 
Have  many  a  dream  to  start  from  ! 

Gon.  This  is  but 

The  wildness  and  the  bitterness  of  gnef, 
Ere  yet  th'  unsettled  heart  hath  closed  its  long 
Impatient  conflicts  with  a  mightier  power, 
Which  makes  all  conflict  vain. 

Hark  I  was  there  not 

A  sound  of  distant  trumpets,  far  beyond 
The  Moorish  tents,  and  of  another  tone 
Than  th'  Afnc  horn,  Ximena? 

Xtm.  Oh,  my  father  I 

I  know  that  hom  too  well.-  Tis  but  the  wind. 
Which,  with  a  sudden  rising,  bears  its  deep 
And  savage  war-note  from  us,  wafting  it 
O'er  the  far  hills. 

Gon.  Alas  I  this  woe  must  be  ! 
I  do  but  shake  my  spirit  from  its  height 
So  startling  it  with  hope  1 — But  the  dread  hou» 
Shall  be  met  bravely  still.'    I  can  keep  down 
Yet  for  a  luite  while — and  Heaven  will  ask 


160  THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA. 

No  more — the  passionate  workings  of  my  heart  ;- 
And  thine— Elmina  ? 

Elm.  Tis — J  am  prepared. 
I  have  prepared  for  all. 

Gon.  Oh,  well  I  knew 

Thou  wouldst  not  fail  me  I — Not  in  vain  my  souJ, 
Upon  thy  faith  and  courage,  hath  built  up 
Unshaken  trust. 

Elm.  (wildly).  Away ! — thou  know'st  me  not  I 
Man  dares  too  far,  his  rashness  would  invest 
This  our  mortality  with  an  attribute 
Too  high  and  awful,  boasting  that  he  knows 
One  human  heart  1 

Gon.  These  are  wild  words,  but  yet 
I  will  not  doubt  thee  !— Hast  thou  not  been  found 
Noble  in  all  things,  pouring  thy  soul's  light 
Undimm'd  o'er  every  trial  ? — And,  as  our  fates, 
So  must  our  names  be,  undivided  ! — Thine, 
I'  th'  record  of  a  warrior's  life,  shall  find 
Its  place  of  stainless  honour. — By  his  side—— 

Elm.  May  this  be  borne  ? — How  much  of  agony 
Hath  the  heart  room  for  ?— Speak  to  me  in  wraih— 
I  can  endure  it  1— But  no  gentle  words  I 
No  words  of  love  I  no  praise  1 — Thy  sword  might  slay. 
And  be  more  merciful  I 

Gon.  Wherefore  art  thou  thus  ? 
Elmina,  my  beloved  I 

Elm.  No  more  of  love  1— 
Have  I  not  said  there's  that  within  my  heart, 
Whereon  it  falls  as  living  fire  would  fall 
Upon  an  unclosed  wound  ? 

Gon.  Nay,  lift  thine  eyes, 
That  I  may  read  their  meaning  1 

Elm.  Never  more 

With  a  free  soul — What  have  I  said  ? — 'twas  nought  I 
Take  thou  no  heed  !    The  words  of  wretchedness 
Admit  not  scrutiny.    Wouldst  thou  mark  the  speech 
Of  troubled  dreams  ? 

Gon.  I  have  seen  thee  in  the  hour 
Of  thy  deep  spirit's  joy,  and  when  the  breath 
Of  grief  hung  chilling  round  thee  ;  in  all  change, 
Bright  health  and  drooping  sickness  ;  hope  and  fear : 
Youth  and  decline  ;  but  never  yet,  Elmina, 
Ne'er  hath  thine  eye  till  now  shrunk  back  perturbeJ 
With  shame  or  dread,  from  mine  1 

Elm.  Thy  glance  doth  search 
A  wounded  heart  too  deeply. 

Gon.  Hast  thou  there 
Aught  to  conceal  ? 

Elm.  Who  hath  not? 

Gon.  Till  this  hour 

Thou  never  hadst  I — Yet  hear  me  I— by  the  free\ 
And  unattainted  fame  which  wraps  the  dust 
Of  thine  heroic  fathers— 

Elm.  This  to  me  I — 

Bring  your  inspiring  war-notes,  and  your  sounds; 
Of  festal  music  round  a  dying  man  1 
Will  his  heart  echo  them  ?— But  if  thy  words 


THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA. 

Were  spells,  to  call  up,  with  each  lofty  tone. 
The  grave's  most  awful  spirits^  they  would  stand 
Powerless  before  my  anguish  ! 

Gon.  Then,  by  her 

Who  there  looks  on  thee  in  the  purity 
Of  her  devoted  youth,  and  o'er  whose  name 
No  blight  must  fall,  and  whose  pale  cheek  must  ne'er 
Burn  with  that  deeper  tinge,  caught  painfully 
From  the  quick  feeling  of  dishonour — Speak  I 

Unfold  this  mystery  ! — By  thy  sons 

Elm.  My  sons ! 
And  canst  thou  name  them  ? 
Gon.  Proudly  !— Better  far 
They  died  with  all  the  promise  of  their  youth. 
And  the  fair  honour  of  their  house  upon  them, 
Than  that  with  manhood's  high  and  passionate  soul 
To  fearful  strength  unfolded,  they  should  live. 
Barred  from  the  lists  of  crested  chivalry, 
And  pining,  in  the  silence  of  a  woe, 
Which  from  the  heart  shuts  daylight ;— o'er  the  shame 
Of  those  who  gave  them  birth  1 — But  thou  couldst  ne'er 
Forget  their  lofty  claims  I 

Elm.  (wildly).  'Twas  but  for  them  I 
Twas  for  them  only  ! — Who  shall  dare  arraJgn 
Madness  of  crime  ? — And  He  who  made  us.  knows 
There  are  dark  moments  of  all  hearts  and  lives, 
Which  bear  down  reason  ! 

Gon.  Thou  whom  1  have  loved 
With  such  high  trust,  as  o'er  our  nature  threw 

A  glory,  scarce  allowed  ; — what  hast  thou  done  ^ • 

Xirnena,  go  thou  hence  I 

Elm.  No.no!  my  child  \ 
There's  pity  in  thy  look  ! — All  other  eyes 
Are  full  of  wrath  and  scorn  ! — Oh  I  leave  me  not  t 

Gon.  That  I  should  live  to  see  thee  thus  abased  ! — 
Yet  speak  ! — What  hast  thou  done? 

Elm.  Look  to  the  gate  ! 

Thou'rt  worn  with  toil — but  take  no  rest  to-night ! 
The  western  gate  I — Its  watchers  have  been  won — 
The  Christian  city  hath  been  bought  and  sold  1 
They  will  admit  the  Moor  1 

Gon.  They  have  been  won  1 
Brave  men  and  tried  so  long  ! — Whose  work  was  this? 

Elm.  Think'st  thou  all  hearts  like  thine  ? — Can  mothers  suuc 
To  see  their  children  perish  ? 

Gon.  Then  the  guilt 
Was  thine  ? 

Elm.  Shall  mortal  dare  to  call  it  guilt  ? 
I  tell  thee.  Heaven,  which  made  all  holy  things, 
Made  nought  more  holy  than  the  boundless  love 
Which  fills  a  mother's  heart  ! — I  say,  'tis  woe 
Enough,  with  such  an  aching  tenderness 
To  love  aught  earthly  1 — and  in  vain  !  in  vain  I — 
We  are  pressed  down  too  sorely ! 

Gon.  (in  a  low  desponding  voice).  Now  my  (iff 
Is  struck  to  worthless  ashes  ! — In  my  soul 
Suspicion  hath  ta'en  root.     The  nobleness 
Henceforth  is  blotted  from  all  human  brows. 


THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA 

And  fearful  power,  a  dark  and  troublous  gift, 
Almost  like  prophecy,  is  poured  upon  me, 
To  read  the  guilty  secrets  in  each  eye 
That  once  looked  bright  with  truth  1 — 

Why  then  I  have  gained 

What  men  call  wisdom  I — A  new  sense,  to  which 
All  tales  that  speak  of  high  fidelity, 
And  holy  courage,  and  proud  honour,  tried, 
Searched,  and  found  steadfast,  even  to  martyrdom, 
Are  food  for  mockery  1 — Why  should  I  not  cast 
From  my  thinned  locks  the  wearing  helm  at  once. 
And  in  the  heavy  sickness  of  my  soul 
Throw  the  sword  down  for  ever  ? — Is  there  aught 
In  all  this  world  of  gilded  hollowness, 
Now  the  bright  hues  drop  off  its  loveliest  things, 
Worth  striving  for  again  ? 

Xim.  Father !  look  up  I 
Turn  Unto  me,  thy  child  I 

Gon.  Thy  face  is  fair  ; 
And  hath  been  unto  me,  in  other  days, 
As  morning  to  the  journeyer  of  the  deep ; 
But  now — 'tis  too  like  hers  I 

Elm.  (falling  at  his  feet).    Woe,  shame  and  woe, 
Are  on  me  in  their  might ! — forgive,  forgive  ! 

Gon.  (starting  up}.  Doth  the  Moor  deem  that  /  have  part  or  share, 
Or  counsel  in  this  vileness? — Stay  me  not ! 
Let  go  thy  hold — 'tis  powerless  on  me  now — \ 
I  linger  here,  while  treason  is  at  work  I  [Pjeit  GONZALEZ 

Elm.  Ximena,  dost  thou  scorn  me  ? 

Xim.  I  have  found 

'In  mine  own  heart  too  much  of  feebleness, 
Hid.  beneath  many  foldings,  from  all  eyes 
But  His  whom  nought  can  blind ; — to  dare  do  aught 
But  pity  thee,  dear  mother  I 

Elm.  Blessings  light 

On  thy  fair  head,  my  gentle  child,  for  this  I 
Thou  kind  and  merciful ! — My  soul  is  faint — 
Worn  with  long  strife  ! — Is  there  aught  else  to  do, 
Or  suffer,  ere  we  die  ? — O  God  I  my  sons  I — 
I  have  betrayed  them  ! — All  their  innocent  blood 
Is  on  my  soul 

Xim.  How  shall  I  comfort  thee  t 
Oh  I  hark  I  what  sounds  come  deepening  on  the  wind, 
So  full  of  solemn  hope  1 

A  fnctwvn  of  Nuns  pastes  across  the  Scene,  bearing  relictt  and  chanttr 
CHANT. 

A  sword  is  on  the  land  ! 

He  that  bears  down  young  tree  and  glorious  flower. 
Death  is  gone  forth,  he  walks  the  wind  in  power  I 

Where  is  the  warrior's  hand  ? 
Our  steps  are  in  the  shadows  of  the  grave, 
Hear  us,  we  perish  I  Father,  hear,  and  save  I 

If,  in  the  days  of  song, 

The  days  of  gladness,  we  have  called  on  The?, 
When  mirthful  voices  rang  from  sea  to  sea, 

And  joyous  hearts  were  strong  ; 


THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA  163 

Now,  that  alike  the  feeble  and  the  brave 

Mtist  cry,  "We  perish  1"— Father  I  hear,  and  save  I 

The  days  of  song  are  fled  I 
The  winds  come  loaded,  wafting  dirge-notes  by 
But  they  that  linger  soon  unmourned  must  die'; 

— The  dead  weep  not  the  dead  I 
Wilt  thou  forsake  us  midst  the  stormy  wave  ? — 
We  sink,  we  pensh  ! — Father,  hear,  and  save  I 

Helmet  and  lance  are  dust  I 
Is  not  the  strong  man  withered  from  our  eye  ? 
The  arm  struck  down  that  held  our  banners  high  7 

Thine  is  our  spirit  s  tnlst  I 

Look  through  the  gathenng  shadows  of  the  grave ! 
Do  we  not  perish  ? — Father,  hear,  and  save  ! 

HERNANDEZ  enter). 

Elm.   Why  comest  thou.  man  of  vengeance  ? — What  have  i 
Tc  do  with  thee  ? — Am  1  not  bowed  enough  ? 
Thou  art  no  mourner  s  comforter  I 

Her.  Thy  lord 

Hath  sent  me  unto  thee.     Till  tras  day  s  tasV 
Be  closed,  thou  daughter  of  the  feeble  heart  • 
He  bids  thee  seek  him  not,  but  lay  thy  woes 
Before  Heaven's  altar   and  in  penitence 
Make  thy  souls  peace  with  God 

Elm.  Till  this  days  Usl< 

Be  closed  I — there  is  strange  triumph  in  thine  eye*  — 
(s  it  that  I  have  fallen  from  that  high  place 
Whereon  I  stood  in  fame?— But  1  can  feel 
A  wild  and  bitter  pnde  in  thus  being  past 
The  power  of  thy  dark  glance  '—My  spirit  cow 
Is  wound  about  by  one  sole  mighty  grief 
Thy  scorn  hath  lost  its  sting. — Thou  mayst  reproach 

Her.  \  come  not  to  reproach  thee.     Heaven  doth  work 
By  many  agencies  ;  and  in  its  hour 
There  is  no  insect  which  the  summer  breeze 
From  the  green  leaf  shakes  trembling,  but  may  serve 
Its  deep  unsearchable  purposes,  as  well 
As  the  great  ocean,  or  th  eternal  fires. 
Pent  in  earth's  caves  I — Thou  hast  but  speeded  that 
Which,  in  th1  infatuate  blindness  of  thy  heart, 
Thou  wouldst  have  trampled  o'er  all  holy  ties. 
But  lo  avert  one  day  I 

Elm.  My  senses  fail— 

Thou  saidst — speak  yet  again  1— I  could  not  catch 
The  meaning  of  thy  words. 

Her.  E'en  now  thy  lord 
Hath  sent  our  foes  defiance.     On  the  walls 
He  stands  in  conference  with  the  boastful  Moor. 
And  awful  strength  is  with  him.     Through  the  blood 
Which  this  day  must  be  poured  in  sacrifice 
Shall  Spam  be  free.     On  all  her  olive-hills 
Shall  men  set  up  the-battle-sign  of  fire, 
And  round  its  blaze,  at  midnight,  keep  the 
Of  vengeance  wakeful  in  each  other  s  hearts 
E'en  with  thy  children's  tale  I 

Xim    Peace,  father  !  peace  I 


164  THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA. 

Behold  she  sinks  I — the  storm  hath  done  its  work 

Upon  the  broken  reed.    Oh  !  lend  thine  aid 

To  bear  her  hence.  [They  lead  her  avoay. 

SCENE— A  Street  in  Valencia.  Several  Groups  of  Citizens  and  Soldiers, 
many  of  them  lying  on  the  Steps  of  a  Church.  Arms  scattered  on  the 
Ground  around  them. 

An  old  Citizen.  The  air  is  sultry,  as  with  thunder-clouds. 
I  left  my  desolate  home,  that  1  might  breathe 
More  freely  in  heaven's  face,  but  my  heart  feels 
With  this  hot  gloom  o'erburthened.     I  have  now 
No  sons  to  tend  me.     Which  of  you,  kind  friends, 
Will  bring  the  old  man  water  from  the  fount, 
To  moisten  his  parched  lip  ?  [A  citizen  goes  out 

Second  Cit.  This  wasting  siege, 
Good  Father  Lopez,  hath  gone  hard  with  you  I 
'Tis  sad  to  hear  no  voices  through  the  house, 
Once  peopled  with  fair  sons  ! 

Third  Cit.  Why,  better  thus, 
Than  to  be  haunted  with  their  famished  cries, 
E'en  in  your  very  dreams  I 

'Old  Cit.  Heaven's  will  be  done  1 
These  are  dark  times  !    I  have  not  been  alone 
In  my  affliction. 

Third  Cit.  (with  bitterness).  Why,  we  have  but  this  thought 
Left  for  our  gloomy  comfort ! — And  'tis  well  I 
Ay,  let  the  balance  be  awhile  struck  even 
Between  the  noble's  palace  and  the  hut, 
Where  the  worn  peasant  sickens  I — They  that  bear 
The  humble  dead  unhonoured  to  their  homes. 
Pass  now  i'  th'  streets  no  lordly  bridal  train, 
With  its  exulting  music  ;  and  the  wretch  - 
Who  on  the  marble  steps  of  some  proud  hall 
Flings  himself  down  to  die,  in  his  last  need 
And  agony  of  famine,  doth  behold 
No  scornful  guests,  with  their  long  purple  robes. 
To  the  banquet  sweeping  by.     Why,  this  is  just  I 
These  are  the  days  when  pomp  is  made  to  feel 
Its  human  mould'. 

Fourth  Cit.  Heard  you  last  night  the  sound 
Of  Saint  Jago's  bell  I — How  sullenly 
From  the  great  tower  it  pealed  ! 

Fifth  Cit.  Ay,  and  'tis  said 
No  mortal  hand  was  near  when  so  it  seemed 
To  shake  the  midnight  streets. 

Old  Cit.  Too  well  I  know 
The  sound  of  coming  fate  ! — 'Tis  ever  thus 
When  Death  is  on  his  way  to  make  it  night 
In  the  Cid's  ancient  house. — Oh  !  there  are  things, 
In  this  strange  world  of  which  we  have  all  to  learn 
When  its  dark  bounds  are  passed. — Yon  bell,  untouchfiu 
(Save  by  the  hands  we  see  not),  still  doth  speak-  - 
When  of  that  line  some  stately  head  is  marked, — 
With  a  wild  hollow  peal,  at  dead  of  night, 
Rocking  Valencia's  towers.     I  have  heard  it  oft. 
Nor  known  its  warning  false. 

Fourth  Cit.  And  will  our  chief 


THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA.  165 

3uy  with  the  price  of  his  fair  children's  blood 
A  few  more  days  of  pining  wretchedness 
For  this  forsaken  city  ? 

Old  Cit.  Doubt  it  not  !— 
But  with  that  ransom  he  may  purchase  still 
Deliverance  for  the  land  ! — And  yet  'tis  sad 
To  think  that  such  a  race,  with  all  its  fame, 
Should  pass  away ! — For  she,  his  daughter  too, 
Moves  upon  earth  as  some  bright  thing  whose  time 
To  sojourn  there  is  short. 

Fifth  Cit.  Then  woe  for  us 
When  she  is  gone  ! — Her  voice — the  very  sound 
Of  her  soft  step  was  comfort,  as  she  moved 
Through  the  still  house  of  mourning  1— Who  like  her 
Shall  give  us  hope  again  ? 

Old  at.  Be  still !— she  comes. 
And  with  a  mien  how  changed  I — A  hurrying  step, . 
And  a  flushed  cheek  !— What  may  this  bode  ?— Be  still 

XiMENA  enters,  with  Attendants  carrying  a  banner. 

Xim.  Men  of  Valencia  !  in  an  hour  like  this, 
What  do  ye  here  ? 

A  at.  We  die  ! 

Xim.  Brave  men  die  now 
Girt  for  the  toil,  as  travellers  suddenly 
By  the  dark  night  o'ertaken  on  their  way  I 
These  days  require  such  death  I — It  is  too  much 
Of  luxury  for  our  wild  and  angry  times. 
To  fold  the  mantle  round  us,  and  to  sink 
From  life,  as  flowers  that  shut  up  silently. 
When  the  sun's  heat  doth  scorch  them  !— Hear  ye  not  / 

A  Cit.  Lady  I  what  wouldst  thou  with  us  ? 

Xim.  Rise  and  arm  ! 

E'en  rnow  the  children  of  your  chief  are  led 
Forth  by  the  Moor  to  perish  ! — Shall  this  be, 
Shall  the  high  sound  of  such  a  name  be  hushed, 
I"  th'  land  to  which  for  ages  it  hath  been 
A  battle-word,  as  'twere  some  passing  note 
Of  shepherd-music? — Must  this  work  be  done. 
And  ye  lie  pining  here,  as  men  in  whom 
The  pulse  which  God  hath  made  for  noble  thought 
Can  be  so  thrilled  no  longer  ? 

Cit.  'Tis  even  so  I 

Sickness,  and  toil,  and  grief,  have  breathed  UDOO  us. 
Our  hearts  beat  faint  and  low. 

Xim.  Are  ye  so  poor 

Of  soul,  my  countrymen  !  that  ye  can  draw 
Strength  from  no  deeper  source  than  that  which  sends 
The  red  blood  mantling  through  the  joyous  veins. 
And  gives  the  fleet  step  wings? — Why,  how  have  age 
And  sensitive  womanhood  ere  now  endured. 
Through  pangs  of  searching  fire,  in  some  proud  cause 
Blessing  that  agony  ? — Think  ye  the  Power 
Which  bore  them  nobly  up,  as  if  to  teach 
The  torturer  where  eternal  Heaven  h»d  set 
Bounds  to  his  sway,  was  earthy,  of  this  earth. 
This  dull  mortality  ? — Nay.  then'look  on  me  ! 
Death  s  touch  hath  marked  me,  and  I  stand  amongst  yov 


166  THE  8IEOE  OF  VALENCIA. 

As  one  whose  place,  i'  th'  sunshine  of  your  world, 

Shall  soon  be  left  to  fill !— I  say,  the  breath 

Of  th'  incense,  floating  through  yon  fane,  shall  scarce 

Pass  from  your  path  before  me  1     But  even  now 

1  have  that  within  me,  kindling  through  the  dust. 

Which  from  all  time  hath  made  high  deeds  its  voice 

And  token  to  the  nations  : — Look  on  me ! 

Why  hath  Heaven  poured  forth  courage,  as  a  flame 

Wasting  the  womanish  heart,  which  must  be  stilled 

Yet  sooner  for  its  swift  consuming  brightness, 

If  not  to  shame  your  doubt,  and  your  despair, 

And  your  soul's  torpor? — Yet,  arise  and  arm  I 

It  may  not  be  too  late. 

A  Cit.  Why,  what  are  we, 

To  cope  with  hosts?— Thus  faint,  and  worn,  and  few, 
O'ernumbered  and  forsaken,  is't  for  us 
To  stand  against  the  mighty? 

Xim.  And  for  whom 

Hath  He,  who  shakes  the  mighty  with  a  breath 
From  their  high  places,  made  the  fearfulness, 
And  ever-wakeful  presence  of  his  power, 
To  the  pale  startled  earth  most  manifest, 
But  for  the  weak? — Was  't  for  the  helmed  and  crowned 
That  suns  were  stayed  at  noonday  ?— Stormy  seas 
As  a  rill  parted  ! — Mailed  archangels  sent 
To  wither  up  the  strength  of  kings  with  death  ?— 
I  tell  you,  if  these  marvels  have  been  done, 
'Twas  for  the  wearied  and  th'  oppressed  of  men, 
They  peeded  such  1 — And  generous  faith  hath  power 
By  her  prevailing  spirit,  e'en  yet  to  work 
Deliverances,  whose  tale  shall  live  with  those 
Of  the  great  elder  time  1 — Be  of  good  heart  I 
Who  is  forsaken  ? — He  that  gives  the  thought 
A  place  within  his  breast  I — 'Tis  not  for  you. — 
Know  ye  this  banner? 

Citizens  (murmuring  to  each  other).  Is  she  not  inspired  ? 
Doth  not  Heav»n  call  us  by  her  fervent  voice? 
Xim.  Know  ye  this  banner? 
Cits.  'Tis  the  Cid's. 
Xim.  The  Cid's  I 

Who  breathes  that  name  but  in  th'  exulting  tone 
Which  the  heart  rings  to?— Why,  the  very  wind 
As  it  swells  out  the  noble  standard's  fold 
Hath  a  triumphant  sound  ! — The  Cid's  1 — it  moved 
Even  as  a  sign  of  victory  through  the  land, 
From  the  free  skies  ne'er  stooping  to  a  foe ! 

Old  Cit.  Can  ye  still  pause,  my  brethren? — Oh  1  that  youth 
Through  this  worn  frame  were  kindling  once  again  I 

Xim.  Ye  linger  still  I — Upon  this  very  air, 
He  that  was  born  in  happy  hour  for  Spain 
Poured  forth  his  conquering  spirit ! — 'Twas  the  breeze 
From  your  own  mountains  which  came  down  to  wave 
This  banner  of  his  battles,  as  it  drooped 
Above  the  champion's  death-bed.     Nor  even  then 
Its  tale  of  glory  closed. — They  made  no  moan 
O'er  the  dead  Ivero,  and  no  dirge  was  sung, 
But  the  deep  tambour  and  shrill  horn  of  war 
Told  when  the  mighty  passed  I — They  wrapt  him  not 


THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA.  167 

With  the  pale  shroud,  but  braced  the  warrior's  forni 

In  war-array,  and  on  his  barbed  steed, 

As  for  a  triumph,  reared  him  ;  marching  forth 

In  the  hushed  midnight  from  Valencia's  walls, 

Beleaguered  then,  as  now.     All  silently 

The  stately  funeral  moved  : — but  who  was  he 

That  followed,  charging  on  the  tall  white  horse, 

And  with  the  solemn  standard,  broad  and  pale, 

Waving  in  sheets  of  snow-light  ?    And  the  cross, 

The  bloody  cross,  far-blazing  from  his  shield, 

And  the  fierce  meteor-sword  I — They  fled,  they  fled  I 

The  kings  of  Afric,  with  their  countless  hosts, 

Were  dust  in  his  red  path  1 — The  scimitar 

Was  shivered  as  a  reed  ! — for  in  that  hour 

The  warrior-saint  that  keeps  the  watch  for  Spain, 

Was  armed  betimes  1 — And  o'er  that  fiery  field" 

The  Cid's  high  banner  streamed  all  joyously, 

For  still  its  lord  was  there  I 

Cits,  (rising  tvmultuously).  Even  unto  death 
Again  it  shall  be  followed  1 

Xim.  Will,  he  see 

The  noble  stem  hewn  down,  the  beacon-light 
Which  from  his  house  for  ages  o'er  the  land 
Hath  shone  through  cloud  and  storm,  thus  quenched  at  once? 
Will  he  not  aid  his  children  in  the  hour 
Of  this  their  utmost  peril  ? — Awful  power 
Is  with  the  holy  dead,  and  there  are  times 
When  the  tomb  hath  no  chain  they  cannot  burst  I  — 
Is  it  a  thing  forgotten,  how  he  woke 
From  its  deep  rest  of  old,  remembering  Spain 
In  her  great  danger? — At  the  night's  mid-watch 
How  Leon  started,  when  the  sound  was  heard 
That  shook  her  dark  and  hollow-echoing  streets, 
As  with  the  heavy-tramp  of  steel-clad  men, 
By  thousands  marching  through  1 — For  he  had  risen ! 
The  Campeador  was  on  his  march  again, 
And  in  his  arms,  and  followed  by  his  hosts 
Of  shadowy  spearmen  ! — He  had  left  the  world 
From  which  we  are  dfmly  parted,  and  gone  forth,, 
And  called  his  buried  warriors  from  their  sleep, 
Gathering  them  round  him  to  deliver  Spain  ; 
For  Afric  was  upon  her  I— Morning  broke — 
Day  rushed  through  clouds  of  battle  ; — but  at  eve 
Our  God  had  triumphed,  and  the  rescued  land 
Sent  up  a  shout  of  victory  from  the  field, 
That  rocked  her  ancient  mountains. 

.The  Cit;.  Arm  1  to  arms  ! 
On  to  our  chief !— We  have  strength  within  us  yet 
To  die  with  our  blood  roused  I — Now,  be  the  word, 
For  the  Cid's  house  !  [  They  begin  to  arm  themselves 

Xim.  Ye  know  his  battle-song  ? 
The  old  rude  strain  wherewitn  his  bands  went  forth 
To  strike  down  Paynim  swords  ! 

(She  sings.) 

THE  CID'S  BATTLE  SONQ. 
The  Moor  is  on  his  way ! 
With  the  tambour-peal  and  the  tecbir-shouL 


168  THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA. 

And  the  horn  o'er  the  blue  seas  ringing  out; 
He  hath  marshalled  his  dark  array  1 

Shout  through  the  vine-clad  land  1 
That  her  sons  on  all  their  hills  may  hear, 
And  sharpen  the  point  of  the  red  wolf-spear, 

And  the  sword  for  the  brave  man's  hand  I 

(The  CITIZENS  join  in  the  song,  -while  they  continue  arming  themselves.) 

Banners  are  in  the  field 
The  chief  must  rise  from  his  joyous  board, 
And  turn  from  the  feast  ere  the  wine  be  poured, 

And  take  up  his  father's  shield  I 

The  Moor  is  on  his  way  I 

Let  the  peasant  leave  his  olive-ground, 

And  the  goats  roam  wild  through  the  pine-woods  round  I—- 
There is  nobler  work  to-day  1 

Send  forth  the  trumpet's  call  I 
Till  the  bridegroom  cast  the  goblet  down, 
And  the  marriage-robe  and  the  flowery  crown, 

And  arm  in  the  banquet-hall ! 

And  stay  the  funeral-train  I 
Bid  the  chanted  mass  be  hushed  awhile, 
And  the  bier  laid  down  in  the  holy  aisle, 

And  the  mourners  girt  for  Spain  I 

(They  take  up  the  banner,  and  follow  XIMENA  out.     Their  voices  are  heard 
gradually  dying  away  at  a  distance.) 

Ere  night,  must  swords  be  red  1 
It  is  not  an  hour  for  knells  and  tears, 
But  for  helmets  bracedt  and  serried  spears ! 

To-morrow  for  the  dead  I 

The  Cid  is  in  array  I 

His  steed  is  barbed,  his  plume  waves  high, 
His  banner  is  up  in  the  sunny  sky, 

Now,  joy  for  the  Cross  to-day  I 


SCENE—  The  walls  of  the  City.     The  flam  beneath,  -with  the  Moorish  Camp 
and  Army. 

GONZALEZ,  GARCIAS,  HERNANDEZ. 
{A  wild  sound  of  Moorish  music  heard  from  below.) 

Her.  What  notes  are  these  in  their  deep  mournfulness 
So  strangely  wild  ? 

Gar.  Tis  the  shrill  melody 
Of  the  Moor's  ancient  death-song.    Well  I  know 
The  rude  barbaric  sound,  but,  till  this  hour, 
It  seemed  not  fearful. — Now,  a  shuddering  chill' 
Comes  o'er  me  with  its  tones.— Lo  1  from  yon  tent 
They  lead  the  noble  boys  I 

Her.  The  young,  and  pure. 
And  beautiful  victims  ! — Tis  on  things  like  these 
We  cast  our  hearts  in  wild  idolatry. 


THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA,  16Q 

Sowing  the  winds  with  hope  !— Yet  this  is  well. 
Thus  brightly  crowned  with  life's  most  gorgeous  flovveri, 
And  all  unblemished,  earth  should  offer  up 
Her  treasures  unto  Heaven  I 

Gar.  (to  Gonzalez}.  My  chief,  trie  Moor 
Hath  led  your  children  forth. 

Gbn.  (starting).  Are  my  sons  there  ? 
I  knew  they  r,ould  not  perish  ;  for  yon  Heaven 
Would  ne'er  behold  it  ! — Where  is  be  that  said 
1  was  no  nlore  a  father  ? — They  look  changed— 
"Pallid  and  worn,  as  from  a  prison-house  1 
Or  is't  mine  eye  sees  dimly  ? — But  their  steps 
Seem  heavy  as  with  pain. — I  hear  the  clank  — 
O  God  I  their  limbs  are  fettered  I 

Aid.  (coming forward  beneath  the  walls). 

Christian !  look 

Once  more  upon  thy  children.  There  is  yet 
One  moment  for  the  trembling  of  the  sword ; 
Their  doom  is  still  with  thee. 

Gon.  Why  should  this  man 
So  mock  us  with  the  semblance  of  our  kind  ? — 
Moor  1  Moor  I  thou  dost  too  daringly  provoke, 
In  thy  bold  cruelty,  th'  all-judging  One, 
Who  visits  for  such  things  I — Hast  thou  no  seiu« 
Of  thy  frail  nature? — Twill  be  taught  thee  yet, 
And  darkly  shall  the  anguish  of  my  soul, 
Darkly  and  heavily,  pour  itself  on  thine, 
When  thou  shall  cry  for  mercy  from  the  dust. 
And  be  denied  I 

Add.  Nay,  is  it  not  thyself 
That  hast  no  mercy  and  no  love  within  thee  ? 
These  are  thy  sons,  the  nurslings  of  thy  bouse  : 
Speak  I  must  they  live  or  die  ? 

Gon.  (in  violent  emotion).   Is  it  Heaven's  will 
To  try  the  dust  it  kindles  for  a  day, 
With  infinite  agony? — How  have  I  drawn 
This  chastening  on  my  head  ? — They  bloomed  around  me. 
And  my  heart  grew  too  fearless  in  its  joy, 
Glorying  in  their  bright  promise  ! — If  we  fall, 
Is  there  no  pardon  for  our  feebleness  ? 

(Her.  without  speaking,  holds  up  a  Cross  before  him  ) 

Abd.  Speak  ! 

Gon.  (snatching  the  Cross  and  lifting  it  up).  Let  the  earth  be  shaker 

through  its  depths, 
But  this  must  triumph  I 

Abd.  (coldly).   Be  it  as  thou  wilt.— 
Unsheath  the  scimitar  I  \To  hts  Guards. 

Gar.  (to  Gonzalez).  Away,  my  chief  i 
This  is  your  place  no  longer.     There  are  things 
No  human  heart,  though  battle-proof  as  yours, 
Unmaddened  may  sustain. 

Gon.  Be  Still  1  I  have  now 
No  place  on  earth  but  this  I 

Alph.  (from  beneath).  Men  I  give  me  way. 
That  I  may  speak  fortli  once  before  I  die  I 

Gar.  The  princely  boy  I  how  gallantly  his  brow 
Wears  its  high  nature  in  the  face  of  death  I 


170  THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA. 

Alpk.  Father! 

Gon.  My  son  I  my  son  ! — Mine  eldest-born  ! 

Alph.  Stay  but  upon  the  ramparts  ! — Fear  thou  not — 
There  is  good  courage  in  me  :  oh  I  my  father ! 
I  will  not  shame  thee  1 — only  let  me  fall 
Knowing  thine  eye  looks  proudly  on  thy  child, 
So  shall  my  heart  have  strength. 

Gon.  Would,  would  to  God, 
That  I  might-die  for  thee,  my  noble  hoy  I 
Alphonso,  my  fair  son  I 

Alph.  Could  I  have  lived, 
I  might  have  been  a  warrior  1 — Now,  farewell  I 
But  look  upon  me  still ! — I  will  not  blench 
When  the  keen  sabre  flashes — Mark  me  well ! 
Mine  eyelids  shall  not  quiver  as  it  falls, 
So  thou  wilt  look  upon  me  ! 

Gar.  (to  Gonzalez].  Nay,  iny  lord  ! 
We  must  begone  1 — Thou  canst  not  bear  it ! 

Gon.  Peace  ! — 

Who  hath  told  thte  how  much  man's  heart  can  bear  \~ 
Lend  me  thine  arm — my  brain  whirls  fearfully — 
How  thick  the  shades  close  round  1 — my  boy  I  my  boy  J 
Where  art  thou  in  this  gloom  ? 

Gar.  Let  us  go  hence  1 
This  is  a  dreadful  moment  I 

Gon.  Hush  !— What  saidst  thou  ? 
Now  let  me  look  on  him  ! — Dost  thou  see  aught 
Through  the  dull  mist  which  wraps  us  ? 

Gar.  I  behold— 
Oh  !  for  a  thousand  Spaniards  to  rush  down — 

Gon.  Thou  seest — My  heart  stands  still  to  hear  thee  speak  i 
There  seems  a  fearful  hush  upon  the  air, 
As  'twere  the  dead  of  night  1 

Gar.  The  hosts  have  closed 
Around  the  spot  in  stillness.     Through  the  spears, 
Ranged  thick  and  motionless,  J  see  him  not ; — 
But  now — 

Gon.  He  bade  me  keep  mine  eye  upon  him, 
And  all  is  darkness  round  me  ! — Now  ? 

Gar.  A  sword, 

A  sword,  springs  upward,  like  a  lightning  burst, 
Through  the  dark  serried  mass ! — Its  cold  blue  glare 
Is  wavering  to  and  fro— 'tis  vanished — hark  I 

Gon.  I  heard  it,  yes  I — I  heard  the  dull  dead  sound 
That  heavily  broke  the  silence  ! — Didst  thou  speak  ?— 
I  lost  thy  words — come  nearer  I 

Gar.  'Twas — 'tis  past ! — 
The  sword  fell  then  I 

Her.  (with  exultation).  Flow  forth,  thou  noble  blood  I 
Fount  of  Spain's  ransom  and  deliverance,  flow 
Unchecked  and  brightly  forth  I — Thou  kingly  stream  ? 
Blood  of  our  heroes  I  blood  of  martyrdom.  I 
Which  through  so  many  warrior-hearts  hast  poured  • 
Thy  fiery  currents,  and  hast  made  our  hills 
Free,  by  thine  own  free  offering  I — Bathe  the  land. 
But  there  thou  shalt  not  sink !— Our  very  air 
Shall  take  thy  colouring,  and.  our  loaded  skies 
O'er  th'  infidel  hcuiu  dark  and  ominous. 


TEE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA.  171 

With  battle-hues  of  thee  I — and  thy  deep  voice 
Rising  above  them  to  the  judgment-seat 
Shall  call  a  burst  of  gathered  vengeance  down, 
To  sweep  th'  oppressor  from  us  ! — For  thy  wave 
Hath  made  his  guilt  run  o'er  ! 

Gen.  (endeavouring  to  rouse  himself).     "Tis  all  a  dream 
There  is  not  one — no  hand  on  earth  could  harm 
That  fair  boy's  graceful  head  ! — Why  look  you  thus? 

Abd,  (pointing- to  Carlos)    Christian  1  e'en  yet  thou  hast  a  son  I 

Gon.  E'en  yet ! 

Car.  My  father  !  take  me  from  these  fearful  men  I 
Wilt  thou  not  save  me,  father  ? 

Gon.  (attempting  to  unsheath  his  sword).  Is  the  strength 
From  mine  arm'  shivered  ? — Garcias,  follow  me  I 

Gar.  Whither,  my  chief? 

Gon.  "Why,  we  can  die  as  well 
On  yonder  plain, — ay,  a  spear's  thrust  will  do 
The  little  that  our  misery  doth  require, 
Sooner  than  e'en  this  anguish  !     Life  is  best 
Thrown  from  us  in  such  moments.  [  Vows  heard  at  a  distance 

Her.  Hush  I  what  strain 
Floats  on  the  wind  ? 

Gar.  Tis  the  Cid's  battle-song  I 
What  marvel  hath  been  wrought  ? 

[  Voicti  approaching  heard  in  c horns 

The  Moor  is  on  his  way  I 
With  the  tambour -peal  and  the  tecbir-shout, 
And  the  horn  o  er  the  blue  seas  ringing  out. 

He  hath  marshalled  his  dark  array  I 

KIMENA  enters,  followed  by  the  CITIZENS,  with  the  Banner. 

Xim.  Is  it  too  late  ? — My  father,  these  are  men 
Through  life  and  death  prepared  to  follow  thee 
Beneath  this  banner ! — Is  their  zeal  too  late  ?— 
Oh  1  there's  a  fearful  history  on  thy  brow  I 
What  hast  thou  seen  ? 

Gar.  It  is  not-  all  too  late. 

Xim    My  brothers  I 

Her.  All  is  well. 

(To  Garcias.)  Hush  I  wouldst  thou  chill 
That  which  hath  sprung  within  them,  as  a  flame 
From  th'  altar-embers  mounts  in  sudden  brightness  ? 
I  say,  'tis  not  too  late,  ye  men  of  §pain  I 
On  to  the  rescue  I 

Xim.  Bless  me,  oh,  my  father  I 
And  I  will  hence,  to  aid  thee  with  my  prayers, 
Sending  my  spirit  with  thee  through  the  storm, 
Lit  up  by  flashing  swords  I 

Gon.  (falling  upon  her  neck).  Hath  aught  been  sotimt 
Am  1  not  all  bereft  ? — Thou  rt  left  me  still ' 
Mine  own,  my  loveliest  one,  thou'rt  left  me  still  I 
Farewell  I — thy  father's  blessing,  and  thy  God's, 
Be  with  thee,  my  Ximena  I 

Xim.  Fare  thee  well  I 

If,  ere  thy  steps  turn  homeward  frorn  the  field. 
The  voice  is  hushed  that  still  hath  welcomed  itjce 
Think  of  me  in  thy  victory  I 


172  THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA. 

Her.  Peace  I  no  more ! 
This  is  no  time  to  melt  our  nature  down 
To  a  soft  stream  of  tears  I — Be  of  strong  heart ' 
Give  me  the  banner  I   Swell  the  song  again  1 

THE  CITIZENS. 

Ere  night,  must  swords  be  red ! 
It  is  not  an  hour  for  knells  and  tears, 
But  for  helmets  braced  and  serried  spears  !— 

To-morrow  for  the  dead  I 

{Exeunt  cmna. 

SCENE— Before  the  Altar  of  a  Church. 
ELMINA  rises  from  the  steps  of  the  Altar. 

Elm.  The  clouds  are  fearful  that  o'erhang  thy  ways, 
Oh,  thou  mysterious  Heaven  ! — It  cannot  be 
That  I  have  drawn  the  vials  of  thy  wrath, 
To  burst  upon  me  through  the  lifting  up 
Of  a  proud  heart,  elate  in  happiness  I 
No  I  in  my  day's  full  noon,  for  me  life's  flowers 
But  wreathed  a  cup  of  trembling  ;  and  the  love, 
The  boundless  love,  my  spirit  was  formed  to  bear, 
Hath  ever,  in  its  place  of  silenoe,  been 
A  trouble  and  a  shadow,  tinging  thought 
With  hues  too  deep  for  joy  I — I  never  looked 
On  my  fair  children,  in  their  buoyant  mirth, 
Or  sunny  sleep,  when  all  the  gentle  air 
Seemed  glowing  with  their  quiet  blessedness, 
But  o'er  my  soul  there  came  a  shuddering  sense 
Of  earth,  and  its  pale  changes  ;  even  like  that 
Which  vaguely  mingles  with  our  glorious  dreams, 
A  restless  and  disturbing  consciousness 
That  the  bright  things  must  fade  ! — How  have  I  shrunk 
From  the  dull  murmur  of  th'  unquiet  voice, 
With  its  low  tokens  of  mortality, 
Till  my  heart  fainted  'midst  their  smiles  I — their  smiles  I 
Where  are  those  glad  looks  now  ?— Could  they  go  down. 
With  all  their  joyous  light,  that  seemed  not  earth's, 
To  the  cold  grave  ? — My  children  I — Righteous  Heaven ! 
There  floats  a  dark  remembrance  o'er  my  brain 
Of  one  who  told  me,  with  relentless  eye, 
That  this  should  be  the  hour  I 

XIMENA  enters. 

Xim.  They  are  gone  forth 
Unto  the  rescue  ! — strong  in  heart  and  hope, 
Faithful,  though  few  1 — My  mother,  let  thy  prayers 
Call  on  the  land's  good  saints  to  lift  once  more 
The  sword  and  cross  that  sweep  the  field  for  Spaiu 
As  in  old  battle ;  so  thine  arms  e'en  yet 
May  clasp  thy  sons  1 — For  me  my'part  is  done ! 
The  flame,  which  dimly  might  have  lingered  yet 
A  little  while,  hath  gathered  all  its  rays 
Brightly  to  sink  at  once  ;  and  it  is  well  I 
The  shadows  are  around  me ;  to  thy  heart 
Fold  me,  that  I  may  die. 


THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA.  173 

Elm.  My  child  !— What  dream 
Is  on  thy  soul  ? — Even  now  thine  aspect  wears 
Life's  brightest  inspiration  I 

Xim.  Death's! 

Elm.  Away ! 

Thine  eye  hath  starry  clearness,  and  thy  check 
Doth  glow  beneath  it  with  a  richer  hue 
Than  tinged  its  earliest  flower  I 

Xim.  It  well  may  be  ! 
There  are  far  deeper  and  far  warmer  hues 
Than  those  which  draw  their  colouring  from  the  founts 
Of  youth,  or  health,  or  hope. 

Elm.  Nay,  speak  not  thus  I 
There's  that  about  thee  shining  which  would  send 
E'en  through  my  heart  a  sunny  glow  of  joy, 
Were't  not  for  these  sad  words.     The  dim  cold  air 
And  solemn  light,  which  wrap  these  tombs  and  shrines 
As  a  pale  gleaming  shroud,  seem  kindled  up 
With  a  young  spirt  of  ethereal  hope 
Caught  from  *'.y  irncin  I — Oh  no  I  this  is  not  death  I 

Xim.  Why  should  not  He,  whose  touch  dissolves  our  chtdn 
Put  on  his  robes  of  beauty  when  He  comes 
As  a  deliverer  : — He  hath  many  forms, 
They  should  not  all  be  fearful  1 — If  his  call 
Be  but  our  gathering  to  that  distant  land 
For  whose  sweet  waters  we  have  pined  with  thirst, 
Why  should  not  its  prophetic  sense  be  borne 
Into  the  heart's  deep  stillness,  with  a  breath 
Of  summer-winds,  a  voice  or  melody, 
Solemn,  yet  lovely  ! — Mother  1  I  depart  1— 
Be  it  thy  comfort,  in  the  after-days, 
That  thou  hast  seen  me  thus  ! 

Elm.  Distract  me  not 

With  such  wild  fears  I  Can  I  bear  on  with  life 
When  thou  art  gone  ? — Thy  voice,  thy  step,  thy  smile, 
Passed  from  ray  path  ? — Alas  I  even  now  thine  eye 
Is  changed — thy  cheek  is  fading  I 

Xim.  Ay,  the  clouds 

Of  the  dim  hour  are  gathering  o'er  my  sight, 
And  yet  I  fear  not,  for  the  God  of  Help 
Comes  in  that  quiet  darkness  ! — It  may  soothe 
Thy  woes,  my  mother  I  if  I  tell  thee  now, 
With  what  glad  calmness  I  behold  the  veil 
Falling  between  me  and  the  world,  wherein 
My  heart  so  ill  hath  rested. 

Elm.  Thine.' 

Xim.  Rejoice 

For  her,  that,  when  the  garland  of  her  life 
Was  blighted,  and  the  springs  of  hope  were,  dried, 
Received  her  summons  hence ;  and  had  no  time, 
Bearing  the  canker  at  th'  impatient  heart, 
To  wither,  sorrowing  for  that  gift  of  Heaven, 
Which  lent  one  moment  of  existence  light, 
That  dimmed  the  rest  for  ever  1 

Elm.  How  is  this? 
My  child,  what  meanest  thou? 

Xim.  Mother!  I  have  loved, 
And  been  beloved  ! — the  sunbeam  of  an  ht»ur 


TEE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA, 

" 

Which  gave  life's  hidden  treasures  to  mine  eye, 
As  they  lay  shining  in  their  secret  founts, 
Went  out,  and  left  them  colourless. — Tis  past — 
And  what  remains  on  earth  ? — the  rainbow  mist, 
Through  which  I  gazed,  hath  melted,  and  my  sight 
Is  cleared  to  look  on  al!  things  as  they  are  ! — 
But  this  is  far  too  mournful  1  Life's  dark  gift 
Hath  fallen  too  early  and  too  cold  upon  me  1 — 
Therefore  I  would  go  hence  I 

Elm.  And  thou  hast  loved 
Unknown 

Xim.  Oh  I  pardon,  pardon  that  I  veiled 
My  thought?  from  thee  ! — But  thou  hadst  woes  enough 
And  mine  came  o'er  me  when  thy  soul  had  need 
Of  more  than  mortal  strength  I — For  I  had  scarce 
Given  the  deep  consciousness  that  I  was  loved 
A  treasure's  place  within  my  secret  heart, 
When  earth's  brief  joy  went  from  me ! 

Twas  at  mom 

I  saw  the  warriors  to  their  field  go  forth, 
And  he— my  chosen — was  there  amongst  the  rest 
With  his  young  glorious  brow  ! — I  looked  again—- 
The strife  grew  dark  beneath  me — but  his  plume 
Waved  free  above  the  lances. — Yet  again — 
It  had  gone  down  1  and  steeds  were  trampling  o'er 
The  spot  to  which  mine  eyes  were  riveted, 
Till  blinded  by  th'  intenseness  of  their  gaze ! — 
And  then — at  last — I  hurried  to  the  gate, 
And  met  him  there  ! — I  met  him  ! — on  his  shield. 
And  with  his  cloven  helm,  and  shivered  sword, 
And  dark  hair  steeped  in  blood  1 — They  bore  him  past — 
Mother  ! — I  saw  his  face  1 — Oh  1  such  a  death 
Works  fearful  changes  on  the  fair  of  earth, 
The  pride  of  woman's  eye ! 

Rim.  Sweet  daughter,  peace  ! 
Wake  not  the  dark  remembrance ;  for  thy  frame 

Xim.  There  will  be  peace  ere  long.     I  shut  my  heart 
Even  as  a  tomb,  o'er  that  lone  silent  grief, 
That  I  might  spare  it  thee  ! — But  now  the  hour 
Is  come  when  that  which  would  have  pierced  thy  soul 
Shall  be  its  healing  balm.    Ob  I  weep  thou  not, 
Save  with  a  gentle  sorrow  1 

Elm.  Must  it  be? 
Art  thou  indeed  to  leave  me  ? 

Xim.  (exultingly).  Be  thou  glad  ! 
I  say,  rejoice  above  thy  favoured  child  ! 
Joy,  for  the  soldier  when  his  field  is  fought. 
Joy,  for  the  peasant  when  his  vintage-task 
Is  closed  at  eve  1 — But,  most  of  all  for  her 
Who,  when  her  life  had  changed  'is  glittering  robes 
For  the  dull  garb  of  sorrow,  which  doth  cling 
So  heavily  around  the  joumeyers  on,. 
Cast  down  its  weight — and  slept  I 

Elm.  Alas  !  thine  eye 

Is  wandering — yet  how  brightly  ! — Is  this  death, 
Or  some  high  wondrous  vision? — Speak,  my  child  J 
How  is  it  with  thee  now  ? 

Xim.  (wildly).  I  see  it  still  I 


THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA.  173 

Tis  floating,  like  a  glorious  cloud  on  high, 
My  father's  banner  ! — Hear'st  thou  not  a  sound? 
The  trumpet  of  Castile  ? — Praise,  praise  to  Heaven  i — 
Now  may  the  weary  rest  1 — Be  still  I — Who  calls 

The  night  so  fearful? l_SJU  diet, 

Elm.  No  !  she  is  not  dead  !— 
Ximena  I — speak  to  me  I — OhJ  yet  a  tone 
From  that  sweet  voice,  that  I  may  gather  in 
Ore  more  remembrance  of  its  lo'vely  sound, 
Ere  the  deep  silence  fall ! — What  I  is  all  hushed  >— 
No,  no ! — it  cannot  be  ! — How  should  we  bear 
The  dark  misgivings  of  our  souls,  if  Heaven 
Left  not  such  beings  with  us? — But  is  this 
Her  wonted  look  ? — too  sad  a  quiet  lies  , 

On  its  dim  fearful  beauty  !— Speak,  Ximena  I 
Speak  ! — my  heart  dies  within  me  ! — She  is  gone, 
With  all  her  blessed  smiles  ! — My  child  !  my  child  I 
Where  art  thou  ? — Where  is  that  which  answered  me, 
From  thy  soft  shining  eyes? — Hush  I  doth  she  move?— 
One  light  lock  seemed  to  tremble  on  her  brow, 
As  a  pulse  throbbed  beneath  ; — 'twas  but  the  voice 
Of  my  despair  that  stirred  it ! — She  is  gone  1 

{She  throws  herself  on  the  body,    GONZALEZ  enters,  alone,  and  u#un<jtd 

Elm.  (rising  as  he  approaches.)  I  must  not  now  be  scorned  ! — 

No,  not  a  look, 

A  whisper  of  reproach  ! — Behold  my  woe ! — 
Thou  canst  not  scorn  me  now  I 

Gon.  Hast  thou  heard  all  f 

Elm.  Thy  daughter  on  my  bosom  laid  her  head, 
And  passed  away  to  rest. — Behold  her  there, 
Even  such  as  death  hath  made  her  ! 

Gon.  (bending over  Ximena' s  body).  Thou  art  gone 
A  little  while  before  me,  oh,  my  child  1 
Why  should  the  traveller  weep  to  part  with  those 
That  scarce  an  hour  will  reach  their  promised  land 
Ere  he  too  cast  his  pilgrim  staff  away, 
And  spread  his  couch  beside  them  ? 

Elm.  Must  it  be 

Henceforth  enough  that  once  a  thing  so  fair 
Had  its  bright  place  amongst  us? — Is  this  all, 
Left  for  the  years  to  come  ? — We  will  not  stay  I 
Earth's  chain  each  hour  grows  weaker. 

Gon.  (still  gazing  upon  Ximena),  And  thou  rt  laid 
To  slumber  in  the  shadow,  blessed  child  I 
Of  a  yet  stainless  altar,  and  beside 
A  sainted  warrior's  tomb  ! — Oh,  fitting  place 
For  thee  to  yield  thy  pure  heroic  soul 
Back  unto  Him  that  gave  it  1 — And  thy  cheei< 
Yet  smiles  in  its  bright  paleness  ! 

Elm    Hadst  thou  seen 
The  look  with  which  she  passed  ! 

Gon.  (still  bending  over  her).   Why,  'tis  almost 
Like  joy  to  view  thy  beautifub  repose  ! 
The  faded  image  of  that  perfect  calm 
Tloats     'en  as  icmg-iorgotten  music,  back 
»nto  my  weary  heart ! — No  dark  wild  spd 
On  thv  clear  brow  dofb  tell  of  bloodv  hand^ 


176  TEE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA. 

That  quenched  young  life  by  violence  I— We  have  seen 
Too  much  of  horror,  in  one  crowded  hour, 
To  weep  for  aught,  so  gently  gathered  hence  I — 
Oh  !  man  leaves  other  traces  ! 

Elm.  (suddenly  starting}.  It  returns 
,  On  my  bewildered  soul ! — Went  ye  not  forth 

Unto  the  rescue  ? — And  thou'rt  here>alon«  I—- 
Where are  my  sons  ? 

Con.  {solemnly).  We  were  too  late  I 

Elm.  Too  late  1 
Hast  thou  nought  else  to  tell  me  ? 

Gon.  I  brought  back 

From  that  last  field  the  banner  of  my  sires, 
And  rriy  own  death-wound. 

Elm.  Thine! 

Gon.  Another  hour 

Shall  hush  its  throbs  for  ever.    I  go  hencet 
And  with  me 

Elm.  No  1 — Man  could  not  lift  his  hands— 
Where  hast  thou  left  thy  sons  ? 

Gon.  I  have  no  sons. 

Elm.  What  hast  thou  said  ? 

Gon.  That  now  there  lives  not  one 
To  wear  the  glory  of  mine  ancient  house, 
When  I  am  gone  to  rest.' 

Elm.  (throwing  herself  on  the  ground,  and  speaking  '» 

a  low  hurried  voice). 

In  one  brief  hour,  all  gone  ! — and  such  a  death  I— 
I  see  their  blood  gush  forth  I — their  graceful  heads- 
'—Take the  dark  vision  from  me,  oh,  my  God  1 
And  such  a  death  for  them  I — I  was  not  there  1 
They  were  but  mine  in  beauty  and  in  joy, 
Not  in  that  mortal  anguish  I— All,  all  gone  I — 
Why  should  I  struggle  more  ? — What  is  this  Power, 
Against  whose  might,  on  all  sides  pressing  us, 
We  strive  with  fierce  impatience,  which  but  lays 
Our  own  frail  spirits  prostrate  ? 

(After  a  long  pause.) 

Now  I  know 

Thy  hand,  my  Go'd  !— and  they  are  soonest  crushed 
That  most  withstand  it  1— I  resist  no  more. 

(She  rises.) 

A  light,  a  light  springs  up  from  grief  and  death, 
Which  with  its  solemn  radiance  doth  reveal 
Why  we  have  thus  been  tried  I 

Qon.  Then  I  may  still 
Fix  my  last  look  on  thee,  in  holy  love, 
Parting,  but  yet  with  hope  I 

•Elm.  (falling  at  his  feet).  Canst  thou  forgive?— 
Oh  I  I  have  driven  the  arrow  to  thy  heart, 
That  should  have  buried  it  within  mine  own, 
And  borne  the  pang  in  silence  !— I  have  cast 
Thy  life's  fair  honour,  in  my  wild  despair, 
As  an  unvalued  gem  upon  the  waves, 
Whence  thou  hast  snatched  it  back,  to  bear  from  etvtti 


TEE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA.  177 

All  stainless,  on  thy  breast.— Well  hast  thou  done— 
But  I— canst  thou  forgive? 

Gon.  Within  this  hour 

I  have  stood  upon  that  verge  whence  mortals  fall, 
And  learned  how  'tis  with  one  whose  sight  grows  dim 
And  whose  foot  trembles  on  the  gulf's  dark  side. — 
Death  purifies  all  feeling, — we  will  part 
In  pity  and  in  love. 

Elm.  Death  ! — And  thou  100 
Art  on  thy  way  I — Oh,  joy  for  fhee,  high  heart  I 
Glory  and  joy  for  thee  I — The  day  is  closed, 
And  well  and  nobly  hast  thou  borne  thyself 
Through  its  long  battle-toils,  though  many  swords 
Have  entered  thine  own  soul  I — But  on  my  head 
Recoil  the  fierce  invokings  of  despair, 
And  I  am  left  far  distanced  in  the  race, 
The  lonely  one  of  earth  !— Ay,  this  is  just. 
I  am  not  worthy  that  upon  my  breast 
In  this,  thine  hour  of  victory,  thou  shouldst  yield 
Thy  spirit  unto  God  I 

Gon.  Thou  art  I  thou  art  I 
Oh  t  a  life's  love,  a  heart's  long  faithfulness, 
E'en  in  the  presence  of  eternal  things, 
Wearing  their  chastened  beauty  all  undimmed, 
Assert  their  lofty  claims  ;  and  these  are  not 
For  one  dark  hour  to  cancel  I — We  are  here, 
Before  that  altar  which  received  the  vows 
Of  our  unbroken  youth,  and  meet  it  is 
For  such  a  witness,  in  the  sight  of  Heaven, 
And  in  the  face  of  death,  whose  shadowy  arm 
Comes  dim  between  us,  to  record  th'  exchange 
Of  our  tried  hearts'  forgiveness. — Who  are  they, 
That  in  one  path  have  journeyed,  needing  ncl 
Forgiveness  at  its  close  ? 

(A  CITIZEN  enters  hastily.) 

Cit.  The  Moors  I  the  Moors  1 

Gon.  Howl  is  the  city  stormed  ? 
Oh  !  righteous  Heaven  ! — for  this  I  looked  not  yet  ! 
Hath  all  been  done  in  vain  ? — Why,  then,  'tis  time* 
For  prayer,  and  then  to  rest  I 

Cit.  The  sun  shall  set, 
And  not  a  Christian  voice  be  left  for  prayer, 
To-night  within  Valencia  ! — Round  our  walls 
The  Paynim  host  is  gathering  for  th'  assault, 
And  we  have  none  to  guard  them. 

Gon.  Then  my  place 
Is  here  no  longer. — I  had  hoped  to  die 
Ev*n  by  the  altar  and  the  sepulchre 
Of  my  brave  sires — but  this  was  not  to  be  ! 
Give  me  my  sword  again,  and  lead  me  hencfl 
Back  to  the  ramparts.     I  have  yet  an  hour, 
And  it  hath  still  high  duties. — Now,  my  wife, 
The  mother  of  my  children — of  the  dead — 
Whom  I  name  unto  thee  in  steadfast  hops- 
Fare  well  1 

Elm.  No,  not  farewell  I — My  soul  hath  risen 
TP  mate  itself  with  thin«  ;  and  by  thy  siie 


178  THE  SIEQE  OF  VALENCIA. 

Amidst  the  hurtling  lances  I  will  stand, 

As  one  on  whom  a  brave  man's  love  hath  been 

Wasted  not  utterly. 

Gon.  I  thank  thee,  Heaven  ! 
That  I  have  tasted  of  the  awful  joy 
Which  thou  hast  given  to  temper  hours  like  this, 
With  a  deep  sense  of  thee,  and  of  thine  ends 
In  these  dread  yisitings  1    ( To  Elm.)    We  will  not  part, 
But  with  the  spirit's  parting  1 

Elm.  One  farewell 

To  her  that,  mantled  with  sad  loveliness, 
Doth  slumber  at  our  feet !— My  blessed  child  ! 
Oh  I  in  thy  heart's  affliction  thou  wert  strong, 
And  holy  courage  did  pervade  thy  woe, 
As  light  the  troubled  waters  ! — Be  at  peace ! 
Thou  whose  bright  spirit  made  itself  the  soul 
Of  all  that  were  around  thee  I— And  j  thy  life 
E'en  then  was  struck,  and  withering!  at  the  core  I—- 
Farewell I— thy  parting  look  hath  on  me  fallen, 
E'en  as  a  gleam  of  heaven,  and  I  am  now 
More  like  what  thou  hast  been  1 — My  soul  is  hushed, 
For  a  still  sense  of  purer  worlds  hath  sunk 
And  settled  on  its  depths  with  that  last  smile 
Which  from  thine  eye  shone  forth. — Thou  hast  not  lived 
In  vain — my  child,  farewell  I 

Gon,  Surely  for  thee 

Death  had  no  sting,  Ximena ! — We  are  blest,' 
To  learn  one  secret  of  the  shadowy  pass, 
From  such  an  aspect's  calmness.    Yet  once  mort 
I  kiss  thy  pale  young  cheek,  my  broken  flower  I 
In  token  of  th'  undying  love  and  hope, 
Whose  land  is  far  away.  [Exeunt 


SCENE-  The  Walls  of  the  City. 
HERNANDEZ.— A  few  CITIZENS  gathered  round  Aim. 

Her.  Why,  men  have  cast  the  treasures,  which  their  lives 
Had  been  worn  down  in  gathering,  on  the  pyre, 
Ay,  at  their  household  hearths  have  lit  the  brand, 
Even  from  that  shrine  of  quiet  love  to  bear 
The  flame  which  gave  their  temples  and  their  homes, 
In  ashes,  to  the  winds ! — They  have  done  this, 
Making  a  blasted  void  where  once  the  sun 
Looked  upon  lovely  dwellings  ;  and  from  earth 
Razing  all  record  that  on  such  a  spot 
Childhood  had  sprung,  age  faded,  misery  wept, 
And  frail  Humanity  knelt  before  her  God  ; — 
They  have  done  this,  in  their  free  nobleness, 
Rather  than  see  the  spoiler's  tread  pollute 
Their  holy  places  ! — Praise,  high  praise  be  theirs, 
Who  have  left  man  such  lessons  1 — And  these  things, 
Made  your  own  hills  their  witnesses  1 — The  sky, 
Whose  arch  bends  o'er  you,  and  the  seas,  wherein 
Your  rivers  pour  their  gold,  rejoicing  saw 
The  altar,  and  the  birthplace,  and  the  tomb, 
And  all  memorials  of  man's  heart  and  faith, 


TEE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA.  1 

Thus  proudly  honoured  ! — Be  ye  not  outdone 
By  the  departed ! — Though  the  godless  foe 
Be  close  upon  us,  we  have  power  to  snatch 
The  spoils  of  victory  from  him.     Be  but  strong ! 
A  few  bright  torches  and  brief  moments  yet 
Shall  baffle  his  flushed  hope,  and  we  may  die, 
Laughing  him  unto  scorn. — Rise,  follow  me, 
And  thou,  Valencia  !  triumph  in  thy  fate, 
{ The  ruin',  not  the  yoke;  and  make  thy  towers 
A  beacon  unto  Spain  ! 

Cit.  We'll  follow  thee  !— 
Alas !  for  our  fair  city,  and  the  homes 
Wherein  we  reared  our  children  ! — But  away  I 
The  Moor  shall  plant  no  crescent  o'er  our  fanes ! 

Voice  (from  a,  Tower  on  the  Walls).  Succours !  Castile  I  Castile  I 

Cits,  (rushing  to  the  spot).  It  is  even  so  ! 
Now  blessing  be  to  Heaven,  for  we  are  saved  t 
Castile,  Castile ! 

Voice  (from  the  Tower).  Line  after  line  of  spears, 
Lance  after  lance,  upon  the  horizon's  verge, 
Like  festal  lights  from  cities  bursting  up, 
Doth  skirt  the  plain  I — In  faith,  a  noble  host ! 

Another  Voice.  The  Moor  hath  turned  him  from  .our  walls,  to  front 
Th'  advancing  might  of  Spain ! 
,  Cits,  (shouting).  Castile  1  Castile ! 

(GONZALEZ  enters,  supportedby  ELMINA  and  a  CITIZEN.) 

Gon.  What  shouts  of  joy  are  these? 

Her.  Hail,  chieftain  !  hail  I 
Thus  even  in  death  'tis  given  thee  to  receive 
The  conqueror's  crown  ! — Behold  our  God  hath  heard, 
And  armed  Himself  with  vengeance  I — Lo  1  they  corns  1 
The  lances  of  Castile  ? 

Gon.  I  knew,  I  knew 

Thou  wouldst  not  utterly,  my  God,  forsake 
Thy  servant  in  his  need  1 — My  blood  and  tears 
Have  not  sunk  vainly  to  th'  attesting  earth  1 
Praise  to  Thee,  thanks  and  praise,  that  I  have  lived 
To  see  this  hour  I 

Elm.  And  I  too  bless  Thy  name, 
Though  Thou  hast  proved  me  unto  agony ! 

0  God  1— Thou  God  of  chastening ! 
Voice  (from  the  Tower).  They  move  on  ! 

1  see  the  royal  banner  in  the  air, 
With  its  emblazoned  towers  1 

Gon.  Go,  bring  ye  forth 
The  banner  of  the  Cid,  and  plant  it  here, 
To  stream  above  me,  for  an  answering  sign 
That  the  good  cross  doth  hold  its  lofty  place 
Within  Valencia  still  1 — What  see  ye  now? 

Her.  I  see  a  kingdom's  might  upon  its  path, 
Moving,  in  terrible  magnificence, 
Unto  revenge  and  victory  1 — With  the  flash 
Of  knightly  swords,  up-springing  from  the  ranks, 
As  meteors  from  a  still  and  gloomy  deep, 
And  with  the  waving  of  ten  thousand  plumes, 
Like  a  land's  harvest  in  the  autumn  wind, 
Xnd  with  fierce  lij?ht,  which  is  rt"t  of  the  sup 


180  THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA. 

But  flung  from  sheets  of  steel — it  comes,  it  comes, 
The  vengeance  of  our  God  ? 

Gon.  I  hear  it  now, 

The  heavy  tread  of  mail-clad  multitudes, 
Like  thunder-showers  upon  the  forest-paths. 

Her.  Ay,  earth  knows  well  the  omen  of  that  sound, 
And  she  hath  echoes,  like  a  sepulchre's, 
Pent  in  her  secret  hollows,  to  respond 
Unto  the  step  of  death  I 

Gon.  Hark  1  bow  the  wind 
Swells  proudly  with  the  battle-march  of  Spain ! 
Now  the  heart  feels  its  power  1 — A  little  while 
Grant  me  to  live,  my  God  I — What  pause  is  this? 

Her.  A  deep  and  dreadful  one  1 — the  serried  files 
Level  their  spears  for  combat ;  now  the  hosts 
Look  on  each  other  in  their  brooding  wrath, 
Silent,  and  face  to  face. 

VOICES  HEARD  WITHOUT,  CHANTING. 

Calm  on  the  bosom  of  thy  God, 
Fair  spirit  I  rest  thee  now  1 

E'en  while  with  ours  thy  footsteps  trod. 
His  seal  was  on  thy  brow. 


Dust,  to  its  narrow  house  beneath  I 
Soul,  to  its  place  on  high  t 

They  that  have  seen  thy  look  in  dej 
No  more  may  fear  to  die. 


Elm.  (to  Gon.).  It  is  the  death-hymn  o'er  thy  daughter's  bier  I— 
But  I  am  calm,  and  e'en  like  gentle  winds, 
That  music,  through  the  stillness  of  my  heart 
Sends  mournful  peace. 

Gon.  Oh  1  well  those  solemn  tones 
Accord  with  such  an  hour,  for  all  her  life 
Breathed  of  a  hero's  soul ! 

\A  sound  of  trumpets  and  shouting  from  the  plain, 

Her.  Now,  now  they  close  I — Hark  I  what  a  dull  dead  sound 
Is  in  the  Moorish  war-shout  1 — I-have  known 
Such  tones  prophetic  oft. — The  shock  is  given — 
Lo  1  they  have  placed  theii  shields  before  their  hearts, 
And  lowered  their  lances  with  the  streamers  on, 
And  on  their  steeds  bend  forward ! — God  for  Spain  t 
The  first  bright  sparks  of  battle  have  been  struck 
From  spear  to  spear,  across  the  gleaming  field  I  — 
There  is  no  sight  on  which  the  bine  sky  looks 
To  match  with  this  1— 'Tis  not  the  gallant  crests, 
Nor  banners  with  their  glorious  blazonry  ; 
The  very  nature  and  high  soul  of  man  • 
Doth  now  reveal  itself ! 

Gon.  Oh  1  raise  me  up. 
That  I  may  look  upon  the  noble  scene  I — 
It  will  not  be  1 — That  this  dull  mist  would  pasa 
A  moment  from  my  sight  I — Whence  rose  that  shout 
As  in  fierce  triumph  ? 

Her.  (clasping his  fiands).  Must  I  look  on  this? 
The  banner  sinks — 'tis  taken  ! 


TSE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA.  181 

Gon.  Whose? 

Her.  Castile's  I 

Gon.  Oh,  God  of  Battles ! 

Elm.  Calm  thy  noble  heart  f 
Thou  wilt  not  pass  away  without  thy  meed. 
Nay,  rest  thee  on  my  bosom. 

Her.  Cheer  thee  yet ! 

Our  knights  have  spurred  to  rescue. — There  is  now 
A  whirl,  a  mingling  of  all  terrible  things, 
Yet  more  appalling  than  the  fierce  distinctness 
Wherewith  they  moved  before  I — I  see  tall  plumes 
All  wildly  tossing  o'er  the  battle's  tide, 
Swayed  by  the  wrathful  motion,  and  the  press 
Of  desperate  men,  as  cedar-boughs  by  storms. 
Many  a  white  streamer  there  is  dyed  with  blood. 
Many  a  false  corslet  broken,  many  a  shield 
Pierced  through  ! — Now,  shout  for  Santiago,  shout  I 
Lo !  javelins  with<a  moment's  brightness  cleave 
The  thickening  dust,  and  barbed  steeds  go  down- 
With  their  helmed  riders ! — Who,  but  One,  can  tell 
How  spirits  part  amidst  that  fearful  rush 
And  trampling  on  of  furious  multitudes? 

Con.  Thou'rt  silent ! — See'st  thou  more  ? — My  soul  grows  dark 

Her.  And  dark  and  troubled,  as  an  angry  sea. 
Dashing  some  gallant  armament  in  scorn 
Against  its  rocks,  is  all  on  which  I  gaze  ! — 
I  can  but  tell  thee  how  tall  spears  are  crossed. 
And  lances  seem  to  shiver,  and  proud  helms 
To  lighten  with  the  stroke  ! — but  round  the  spot, 
Where,  like  a  storm-felled  mast,  our  standard  sank, 
The  heat  of  battle  burns. 

Gon.  Where  is  that  spot  ? 

Her.  It  is  beneath  the  lonely  tuft  of  palms, 
That  lift  their  green  heads  o'er  the  tumult  still, 
in  calm  and  stately  grace. 

Gon.   There,  didst  thou  say  ? 
Then  God  is  with  us,  and  we  must  prevail  1 
For  on  that  spot  they  died  I-   My  children's  blood 
Calls  on  th  avenger  thence  ! 

Elm.  They  perished  there  I — 
And  the  bright  locks  that  waved  so  joyously 
To  the  free  winds,  lay  trampled  and  defiled 
E'en  on  that  place  of  death  1— Oh,  Merciful  I 
Hush  the  dark  thought  within  me  1 

Her.  (with  sudden  exultation.)  Who  is  he 
On  the  whke  steed,  and  with  the  castled  helm, 
And  the  gold-broidered  mantle,  which  doth  float 
E'en  like  a  sunny  cloud  above  the  fight ; 
And  the  pale  cross,  which  from  his  breastplate  gleams 
With  star-like  radiance  ? 

Gok.  ^eagerly.)  Didst  thou  say  the  cross  ? 

Her.  On  his  mailed  bosom  shines  a  broad  whiteicross, 
And  his  long  plumage  through  the  darkening  air 
Streams  like  a  snow-wreath. 

Gon.  That  should  be— 

Her.  The  king  1— 

Was  it  not  told  us  how  he  sent,  of  late. 
To  the  Cid's  tomb,  e'en  for  the  silver  "cross, 


1S2  TEE  SIEGE  Oil  VALENO1A. 

Which  he  who  slumbers  there  was  wont  to  bind 
O'er  his  brave  heart  in  fight  ? 

Gon.  {springing  up  joyfully.")  My  king  1  my  king  I 
Now  all  good  saints  for  Spain  I — My  noble  king  ! 
And  thou  art  there  I — That  I  might  look  once  more 
Upon  thy  face  ! — But  yet  I  thank  thee,  Heaven  ! 
That  thou  hast  sent  him,  from  my  dying  hands 
Thus  to  receive  his  city  I  [ffe  sinks  back  into  EI.MINA'S  arrns. 

Her.  He  hath  cleared 
A  pathway  'midst  the  combat,  and  the  light 
Follows  his  charge  through  yon  close  living  mass, 
E'en  as  the  gleam  on  some  proud  vessel's  wake 
Along  the  stormy  waters  ! — Tis  redeemed — 
The  castled  banner  I — It  is  flung  once  more 
In  joy  and  glory,  to  the  sweeping  winds  1 — 
There  seems  a  wavering  through  the  Paynim  hosts — 
Castile  doth  press  them  sore — Now,  now  rejoice  1 

Gon.  What  hast  thou  seen  ? 

Her.  Abdullah  falls  !  He  falls ! 
The  man  of  blood  1 — the  spoiler  I — he  hath  sunk 
In  our  king's  path  ! — Well  hath  that  royal  sword 
Avenged  thy  cause,  Gonzalez  ! 

They  give  way, 

The  Crescent's  van  is  broken  ! — On  the  hills 
And  the  dark  pine-woods  may  the  infidel 
Call  vainly,  in  his  agony  of  fear, 
To  cover  him  from  vengeance ! — Lo  I  they  fly  ! 
They  of  the  forest  and  the  wilderness 
Are  scattered,  e'en  as  leaves  upon  the  wind  t 
Woe  to  the  sons  of  Afric  I — Let  the  plains, 
And  the  vine-mountains,  and  Hesperian  seas, 
Take  their  dead  untc  them  ! — that  blood  shall  wash 
Our  soil  from  stains  of  bondage. 

Gon.  {attempting  to  raise  himself. )  Set  me  free  I 
Come  with  me  forth,  for  I  must  greet  my  king, 
After  his  battle-field  ! 

Her.  Oh,  blest  in  death  ! 

Chosen  of  Heaven,  farewell ! — Look  on  the  Cross, 
And  part  from  earth  in  peace  I 

Gon.  Now  charge  once  more  1 
God  is  with  Spain,  and  Santiago's  sword 
Is  reddening  all  the  air  1 — Shout  forth  ' '  Castile !" 
The  day  is  ours ! — I  go  ;  but  fear  ye  not  1 
For  Afric 's  lance  is  broken,  and  my  sons 
Have  won  their  first  good  field  1  [f/t  dies 

Elm.  Look  on  me  yet  I 

Speak  one  farewell,  my  husband  ! — Must  thy  voice 
Enter  my  soul  nc'more  ! — Thine  eye  is  fixed— 
Now  is  my  life  uprooted, — and^tis  well. 

[/I  sound  of  triumphant  Music  is  heard,  and  many  Castilian 
Knights  and  Soldiers  enter], 

A  CiJiten.  Hush  your  triumphal  sounds,  although  ye  comf 
E'en  as  deliverers  ! — But  the  noble  dead, 
And  those  that  mourn  them,  claim  from  human  hearts 
Deep  silent  reverence. 

Elm.  (rising  proTtdly).  No,  swell  forth,  Castile, 
Thy  trumpet-musior  ti21the.seas  and  heavens, 


80NOS  OF  THE  GID. 


183 


And  the  deep  hills,  give  every  stormy  note 
Echoes  to  ring  through  Spain  l-^-How,  know  ye  not 
That  all  arrayed  for  triumph,  crowned  and  robed 
With  the  strong  spirit  which  hath  saved  the  land. 
E'en  now  a  conqueror  to  his  rest  is  gone  ? — 
Fear  not  to  break  that  sleep,  but  let  the  wind 
Swell  on  with  victory's  shout ! — He  will  not  hear— 
Hath  earth  a  sound  more  sad  ? 

Her.  Lift  ye  the  dead, 
And  bear  him  with  the  banner  of  his  race 
Waving  above  him  proudly,  as  it  waved 
O'er  the  Cid's  battles,  to  the  tomb,  wherein 
His  warrior-sires  are  gathered.  They  raise  the  body. 

Elm.  Ay,  'tis  thus 

Thou  shouldst  be  honoured  1 — And  I  follow  thee 
With  an  unfaltering  and  lofty  step, 
To  that  last  home  of  glory.    She  that  wears 
In  her  deep  heart  the  memory  of  thy  love 
Shall  thence  draw  strength  for  all  things,  till  the  God. 
Whose  hand  around  her  hath  unpeopled  earth, 
Looking  ^pon  her  still  and  chastenad  soul, 
Call  it  once  more  to  thine  ! 

(To  the  Castilians.) 

Awake,  I  say, 

Tambour  and  trumpet,  wake  ! — And  let  the  land 
Through  all  her  mountains  hear  your  funeral  peal  I 
So  should  a  hero  pass  to  his  repose.  [Exeunt  omnes. 


SONGS    OF    THE    CID. 

(The  following  ballads  are  not  translations  from  the  Spanish,  but  are  founded  upon  some  of  the 
"  wild  and  wonderful"  traditions  preserved  in  the  romances  of  that  language,  and  the  ancient  poem 
sf  the  Ctd.J 


THE  CID'S  DEPARTURE  INTO 
EXILE. 

WITH  sixty  knights  in  his  gallant  train, 
Went  forth  the  Campeador  of  Spain ; 
For  wild  sierras  and  plains  afar, 
He  left  the  lands  of  his  own  Bivar.* 

To  march  o'er  field,  and  to  watch  in  tent, 
From  his  home  in  good  Castile  he  went ; 
To  the  wasting  siege  and  the  battle's  van, — 
For  the  noble  Cid  was  a  banished  man  I 

Through  his  olive-woods  the  morn-breeie 

played, 

And  his  native  streams  wild  music  made, 
And  clear  in  the  sunshine  his  vineyards  lay, 
When  for  march  and  combat  he  took  his 

way. 


Burgos. 


With  a  thoughtful  spirit  his  way  he  took, 
And  he  turned  his  steed  for  a  parting  look, 
For  a  parting  look  at  his  own  fair  towers ; — 
Oh  1  the  Exile's  heart  hath  weary  hours  I 

The  pennons  were  spread,  and  the  band 

arrayed,  fstayed, 

But  the  Cid  at  the  threshold  a  moment 

It  was  but  a  moment — the  halls  were  lone, 

And  the  gates  of  his  dwelling  all  open 

thrown. 

There  was  not  a  steed  in  the  empty  stall, 
Nor  a  spear  nor  a  cloak  on  the  naked  wall, 
Nor  a  hawk  on  the  perch,  nor  a  seat  at  the 

door, 
Nor  the  sound  of  a  step  on  the  hollow  floor. 

Thena-dim  tearswelled  to  the  warrior's  eye, 
As  the  voice  of  his  native  groves  went  by  ; 
And  he  said — "  My  foemen  their  wish  have 
won,  [done  1" 

— Now  the  will  of  God  be  in  all  things 


184 


80N08  OF  TffK  OLD. 


But  the  trumpet  b^ew,  with  its  note  of  cheer 
And  the  winds  of  the  morning  swept  off  the 

tear, 

And  the  fields  of  his  glory  lay  distant  far, — 
He  is  gone  from  the  towers  of  his  own 

Bivar  1 


THE  CID'S  DEATHBED. 

IT  was  an  hour  of  grief  and  fear 
Within  Valencia's  walls,  [clea 

When  the  blue  spring-heaven  lay  still  an 
Above  her  marble  halls. 

There  were  pale  cheeks  and  troubled  eyes 
And  steps  of  hurrying  feet,  [rise 

Where  the  Zambra's*  notes  were  wont  to 
Along  the  sunny  street. 

It  was  an  hour  of  fear  and  grief, 

On  bright  Valencia's  shore, 
For  Death  was  busy  with  her  chief, 

The  noble  Campeador 

The  Moor-king's  barks  were  on  the  deep, 
With  sounds  and  signs  of  War, 

For  the  Cid  was  passing  to  his  sleep 
In  the  silent  Alcazar. 

No  moan  was  heard  through  the  towers  oi 
state, 

No  weeper's  aspect  seen, 
But  by  the  couch  Ximena  sate, 

With  pale,  yet  steadfast  mien. 

Stillness  was  round  the  leader's  bed, 
Warriors  stood  mournful  nigh, 

And  banners,  o'er  his  glorious  head, 
Were  drooping  heavily. 

And  feeble  grew  the  conquering  hand, 

And  cold  the  valiant  breast ; — 
He  had  fought  the  battles  of  the  land, 

And  his  hour  was  come  to  rest. 

What  said  the  Ruler  of  the  field  ?— 

His  voice  is  faint  and  low  ; 
The  breeze  that  creeps  o'er  his  lance  and 
shield 

Hath  louder  accents  now. 

"  Raise  ye  no  cry,  and  let  no  moan 

Be  made  when  I  depart  ; 
The  Moor  must  hear  no  dirge's  tone  ;. 

Be  ye  of  mighty  heart  I 


*  A  Moorish  dance 


"  Let  the  cymbal  clash  and  the  trumpet 
strain 

From  your  walls  ring  far  and  shrill, 
And  fear  ye  not,  for  the  saints  of  Spain 

Shall  grant  you  victory  still. 

"  And  gird  my  form  with  mail  array, 

And  set  me  on  my  steed, 
So  go  ye  forth  on  your  funeral  way, 

And  God  shall  give  you  speed. 

"  Go  with  the  dead  in  the  front  of  war, 
All  armed  with  sword  and  helm, 

And  march  by  the  camp  of  King  Bucar. 
For  the  good  Castilian  realm. 

And  let  me  slumber  in  the  soil 
Which  gave  my  fathers  birth  ; 
I  have  closed  my  day  of  battle-toil, 
And  my  course  is  done  on  earth. " 

—Now  wave,  ye  glorious  banners,  wave  I 
Through  the  lattice  a  wind  sweeps  by, 

And  the   arms,  o'er  the  deathbed  of  the 

brave, 
Send  forth  a  hollow  sigh. 

Now  wave,  ye  banners  of  many  a  fight  I 
As  the  fresh  wind  o'er  you  sweeps  ; 

The  wind  and  the  banners  fall  Rushed  as 

night, 
The  Campeador — he  sleeps  I 

Sound  the  battle  hom  on  the  breeze  of 
mom, 

And  swell  out  the  trumpet's  blast, 
Till  the  notes  prevail  o'er  the  voice  of  wail 

For  the  noble  Cid  hath  passed  1 

THE  CID'S  FUNERAL  PROCESSION. 

THE  Moor  hath   beleaguered  Valencia'.-- 

towers, 

And  lances  gleamed  up  through  her  citron- 
bowers, 

aid  the  tents  of  the  desert  had  girt  her 
Plain.  [Spain ; 

And  camels  were  trampling  the  vines  of 
For  the  Cid  was  gone  to  rest. 

"here   were  men    from   wilds  where  the 

death-wind  sweeps,  [lion  sleeps, 

"here  were  spears  from  hills  where   the 

There  were  bows  from  sands  where  the 

ostrich  runs,  [SOns 

For  the  shrill  horn  of  Afric  had  called  her 

To  the  battles  of  the  Wast. 


80NG8  OF  THE  OTTt 


185 


The  midnight  bell,  o'er  the  dim  seas  heard, 
Like  the  roar  of  waters,  the  air  had  stirred ; 
The  stars  were  shining  o'er  tower  and  wave. 
And  the  camp  lay  hushed,  as  a  wizard  s 

cave ; 
But  the  Christians  woke  that  nightr 

They  reared  the  Cid  on  his  barbed  steed, 
Like  a  warrior  mailed  for  the  hour  of  need, 
And  they  fixed  the  sword  in  the  cold  right 

hand 
Which  had  fought  so  well  for  bis  faiiw!*'.s 

land, 
And  the  shield  from  bis  neck  hung  bright: 

There  was  arming   heard  on  Valencia's 

halls, 

There  was  vigil  kept  on  the  rampart  walls  ; 
Stars  had  not  faded  nor  clouds  turned  red, 
When  the  knights  had  girded  the  noble 

dead, 
And  the  burial  train  moved  out. 

With  a  measured  pace,  as  the  pace  of  one, 
Was  the  still  death-march  of  the  host  begun; 
With  a  silent  step  went  the  cuirassed  bands, 
Like  a  lion's  tread  on  the  burning  sands  ; 
And  they  gave  no  battle-shout. 

When  the  firs.t  went  forth,  it  was  midnight 

deep, 
In  heaven  was  the  moon,  in  the  camp  was 

sleep ; 
When  the  last  through  the  city's  gates  had 

gone, 

O'er  tent  and  rampart  the  bright  day  shone, 
With  a  sun-burst  from  the  sea. 

There  were    knights    five    hundred   went 
armed  before,  [bore; 

And  Bermudez  the  Cid's  green  standard 
To  its  last  fair  field,  with  the  break  of  morn, 
Was  the  glorious  banner  in  silence  borne, 
On  the  glad  wind  streaming  free. 

And  the  Campeador  came  stately  then, 
Like  a  leader  circled  with  steel-clad  men  ; 
The  helmet  was  down  o'er  the  face  of  the 

dead, 

But  his  steed  went  proud,  by  a  warrior  led, 
For  he  knew  that  the  Cid  was  there. 

He  was  there,  the  Cid,  with  his  own  good 

sword, 

And  Ximena  following  her  noble  lord  ; 
Her  eye  was  solemn,  her  step  was  slow, 
But  there  rose  not  a  sound  of  war  or  woe, 
Not  a  whisper  on  the  air. 


The  halls  in  Valencia  were  still  and  lone, 
The  churches  were  empty,  the  masses  done; 
There  was  not  a  voice  through  the  wide 

streets  far, 

Nor  a  foot-fall  heard  in  the  Alcazar, 
— So  the  burial  train  moved  out. 

With  a  measured  pace,  as  the  pace  of  one, 
Was  the  still  death-march  of  the  host  begun ; 
With  a  silent  step  went  the  cuirassed  bands, 
l>ike  a  lion's  tread  on  the  burning  sands  ; 
-And  they  gave  no  battle-shout. 

But  the  deep  hills  pealed  with  a  cry  ere  long, " 
When  the  Christians  burst  on  the  Paynim 

throng ! 

—With  a  sudden  flash  of  the  lance  and  spear, 
And  a  charge  of  the  war-steed  in  full  career, 
It  was  Alvar  Fafiez  came ! 

He  that  was  wrapt  with  no  funeral  shroud, 

Had  passed  before  like  a  threatening  cloud! 

And  the  storm  rushed  down  on  the  tented 

plain,  [slain  ; 

And  the  Archer-Queen,  with  her  bands,  lay 

For  the  Cid  upheld  his  fame. 

Then  a  terror  fell  on  the  King  Bucar, 
And  the  Libyan  kings  who  had  joined  his 

war  ; 

And  their  hearts  grew  heavy,  and  died  away, 
And  their  hands  could  not  wield  an  assagay, 
For  the  dreadful  things  they  saw  I 

For  it  seemed  where  Minaya  his  onset  made, 
There    were    seventy    thousand    knights 

arrayed, 

All  white  as  the  snow  on  Nevada's  steep, 
And  they  came  like  the  foam  of  &  roaring 

deep  ; 
— 'Twas  a  sight  of  fear  and  awe  I 

And  the  crested  form  of  a  warrior  tall, 
With  a  sword  of  fire  went  before  them  all ; 
With  a  sword  of  fire,  and  a  banner  pale, 
And  a  blood-red  cross  on  his  shadowy  mail; 
He  rode  fn  the  battle's  van  1 

There  was  fear  in  the  path  of  his  dim  white 
horse,  [course  I 

There  was    death    in  the  giant-warrior's 
Where  his  banner  streamed  with  its  ghostly 
light.  [ing  flight- 

Where  hissword  blazed  out,  therewas  hurry 
For  it  seemed  not  the  sword  of  man  I 

The  field  and  the  river  grew  darkly  red, 
As  the  kings  and  leaners  of  Afric  fled  ; 


186 


GREEK  80NQ8. 


T  here  was  work  for  the  men  of  the  Cid 

that  day  I 
—They  were  weary  at  eve,  when  they  ceased 

to  slay, 
As  reapers  whose  task  is  done  1 

The  kings  and  the  leaders  of  Afric  fled  I 
The  sails  of   their  galleys  in  haste  were 

spread  , 
But  the  sea  had  its  share  of  the  Paynim 

slain, 
And  the  bow  of  the  desert  was  broke  in 

Spain, 
v  —So  the  Cid  to  his  grave  passed  on  I 


THE  CID'S  RISING. 

'TWAS  the  deep  mid-watch  of  the  silent 

night, 

And  Leon  in  slumber  lay, 
When  a  sound  went  forth  in  rushing  might, 

Lake  an  army  on  its  way  I 
•.  In  the  stillness  of  the  hour, 
When  the  dreams  of  sleep  have  power, 
And  men -forget  the  day. 

Through  the  dark  and  lonely  streets  it  went, 
Till  the  slumberers  woke  in  dread  ; — 


The  sound  of  a  passing  armament, 
With  the  charger's  stony  tread. 
There  was  heard  no  trumpet's  peal, 
But  the  heavy  tramp  of  steel, 
As  a  host's  to  combat  led. 

Through  the  darkandlonelystreetsitpassed, 

And  the  hollow  pavement  rang, 
And  the  towers,  as  with  a  sweeping  blast, 

Rocked  to  the  stormy  clang  ! 
But  the  march  of  the  viewless  train 
Went  on  to  a  royal  fane,    . 
Where  a  priest  his  night-hymn  sang. 

There  was  knocking  :that  shook  the  marble 

floor. 

And  a  voice  at  the  gate,  which  said — 
"  That  the  Cid  Ruy  Diez,  the  Campeador 

Was  there  in  his  arms  arrayed  ; 
And  that  with  him,  from  the  tomb, 
Had  the  Count  Gonzalez  come 
With  a  host,  uprisen  to  aid  1 

"  And  they  came  for  the  buried  king  that  lay 

At  rest  in  that  ancient  fane  ; 
For  he  must  be  armed  on  the  battle-day, 

With  them  to  deliver  Spain  !" 
—Then  the  march  went  sounding  on, 
And  the  Moors  by  noontide  sun 
Were  dust  on  Tolosa's  plain. 


1823, 

GREEK  SONGS. 


THE  STORM  OF  DELPHI. 

FAR  through  the  Delphian  shades 

An  Eastern  trumpet  rung  I 
And  the  started  eagle  rushed  on  high, 
With  a  sounding  flight  through  the  fiery  sky, 
And  banners,  o'er  the  shadowy  glades, 

To  the  sweeping  winds  were  flung. 

Banners,  with  deep-red  gold 
All  waving,  as  a  flame,  [head 

And  a  fitful  glance  from  the  bright  spear- 
On  the  dim  wood-paths  of  the  mountain 

shed, 

And  a  peal  of  Asia's  war-notes  told 
That  in  arms  the  Persian  came, 

He  came,  with  starry  gems 
On  his  quiver  and  las  crest ; 


With  starry  gems,  at  whose  heart  the  day 
Of  the  cloudless  Orient  burning  Jay ; 
And  they  cast  a  gleam  on  the  laurel-stems, 
As  onward  his  thousands  pressed. 

But  a  gloom  fell  o'er  their  way, 
And  a  heavy  moan  went  by ! 
A  moan,  yet  not  like  the  wind's  low  swell, 
When  its  voice  grows  wild  amidst  cave  and 

dell, 

But  a  mortal  murmur  of  dismay, 
Or  a  warrior's  dying  sigh  I 

A  gloom  fell  o'er  their  way ! 

Twas  not  the  shadow  cast 

By  the  dark  pine-boughs,  as  they  crossed 

the  blue  [hue ; 

Oi  the  Grecian  heavens  with  their  solemn 

The  air  was  filled  with  a  mightier  sway,— 

But  on  the  spearmen  passer!  i 


GREEK  SONGS. 


187 


And  hollow,  to  their  tread. 

Came  the  echoes  of  the  ground, 
And  banners  drooped,  as  with  the  dew  o'er- 

borne, 

And  the  wailing  blast  of  the  battle-horn 
Had  an  altered  cadence  dull  and  dead, 

Of  strange  foreboding  sound. 

But  they  blew  a  louder  strain 
When  the  steep  defiles  were  passed  ! 
And  afar  the  crowned  Parnassus  rose, 
To  shine  through  heaven  with  his  radiant 

snows, 

And  in  golden  light  the  Delphian  fane 
Before  them  stood  at  last  I 

In  golden  light  it  stood, 
'Midst  the  laurels  gleaming  lone, 
For  the  Sun-God  yet,  with  a  lovely  smile, 
O'er  its  graceful  pillars  looked  awhile, 
Though  the  stormy  shade  on  cliff  and  wood 
Grew  deep  round  its  mountain-throne. 

And  the  Persians  gave  a  shout  I 
But  the  marble  walls  replied, 
With  a  clash  of  steel,  and  a  sullen  roar 
Like  heavy  wheels  on  the  ocean  shore, 
And  a  savage  trumpet's  note  pealed  out, 
Till  their  hearts  for  terror  died  1 

On  the  armour  of  the  god 
Then  a  viewless  hand  was  laid ; 
There  were  helm  and  spear,  with  a  clanging 

din, 

And  corslet  brought  from  the  shrine  within, 
From  the  inmost  shrine  of  the  dread  abode, 
And  before  its  front  arrayed. 

And  a  sudden  silence  fell 
Through  the  dim  and  loaded  air ! 
On  the  wild  bird's  wing,  and  the  myrtle- 
spray, 

And  the  very  founts,  in  their  silvery  way, 
With  a  weight  of  sleep  came  down  the  spell, 
Till  man  grew  breathless  there. 

But  the  pause  was  broken  soon  t 
'Twas  not  by  song  or  lyre  ; 
For  the  Delphian   maids  had   left  their 
bowers,  [towers, 

And  the  hearths  were  lone  in  the  city's 
But  there  burst  a  sound  through  the  misty 

noon, 
That  battle-noon  of  fire  I 

It  burst  from  earth  and  heaven  I 
It  rolled  -from  crag  and  cloud  1 
For  a  moment  of  the  mountain-blast, 
With  a  thousand  stormy  voices  passed : 


And  the  purple  gloom  of  the  sky  was  riven, 
When  the  thunder  pealed  aloud. 

And  the  lightnings  in  their  play 
Flashed  forth,  like  javelins  thrown  ; 
Like  sun-darts  winged  from  the  silver-bow, 
They  smote  thespearand  the  turbaned  brow, 
And  the  bright  gems  flew  from  the  crest  like 

spray, 
And  the  banners  were  struck  down  ! 

And  the  massy  oak-boughs  crashed 
To  the  fire-bolts  from  on  high ; 
And  the  forest  lent  its  billowy  roar, 
While  the  glorious  tempest  onward  bore, 
And  lit  the  streams,  as  they  foamed  and 

dashed, 
With  the  fierce  rain  sweeping  by. 

Then  rushed  the  Delphian  men 

On  the  pale  and  scattered,  host ; 

Like  the  joyous  burst  of  a  flashing  wave, 

They  rushed  from  the  dim  Corycian  cave, 

And  the  singing  blast  o'er  wood  and  glen 

Rolled  on,  with  the  spears  they  tossed. 

There  were  cries  of  wild  dismay, 

There  were  shouts  of  warrior-glee, 

There  were  savage  sounds  of  the  tempest's 

mirth, 

That  shook  the  realm  of  their  eagle-birth 
But  the  mount  of  song,  when  they  died  away, 
Still  rose,  with  its  temple,  free  1 ' 

And  the  Paean  swelled  ere  long,. 

lo  Psean  1  from  the  fane ; 
lo  Paean  I  for  the  war  array, 
On  the  crowned  Parnassus  riven  that  day ! — 
Thou  shalt  rise  as  free,  thou  mount  of  song 

With  thy  bounding  streams  again. 


n. 

THE  BOWL  OF  LIBERTY. 

BEFORE  the  fiery  sun,  [less  eye 

The  sun  that  looks  on  Greece  with  cloud- 
In  the  free  air,  and  on  the  war-field  won, 
Our  fathers  crowned  the  Bowl  of  Liberty. 

Amidst  the  tombs  they  stood, 
The  tombs  of  heroes  1  with  the  solemn  skies. 
And  the  wide  plain  around,  where  patriot- 
blood 
Had  steeped  the  soil  in  hues  of  sacrifice. 

They  called  the  glorious  dead, 
In  the  sticng  faith  which  brings  the  view 
leas  nigh, 


188 


GREEK  SON09. 


And  poured  rich  odours  o'er  the  battle-bed, 
And  bade  them  to  the  rite  of  Liberty. 

They  called  them  from  the  shades, 
The  golden-fruited  shades,  where  minstrels 

ten 

How  softer  light  th'  immortal  clime  pervades, 
And  music  floats  o'er  meads  of  Asphodel. 

Then  fast  the  bright-red  wine 
Rowed  to  their  names  who  taught  the 
world  to  die,  {shrine, 

And  made  the  land's  green  turf  a  living 
Meet  for  the  wreath  and  Bowl  of  Liberty. 

So  the  rejoicing  earth  [gave, 

Took  from  her  vines  again  the  blood  she 

And  richer  flowers  to  deck  the  tomb  drew 

birth  [brave. 

From  the  free  soil,  thus  hallowed  to  the 

We  have  the  battle-fields, 

The  tombs,  the  names,  the  blue  majestic 

sky,  [yields ; — 

We  have  the  founts  the  purple  vintage 

When  shall  we  crown  the  Bowl  of  Liberty? 


THE  VOICE  OF  SCIO. 

A  VOICE  from  Scio's  isle— 
A  voice  of  song,  a  voice  of  old, 
Swept  far  as  cloud  or  billow  rolled  ; 

And  earth  was  hushed  the  whfle 

The  souls  of  nations  woke  i 
Where  lies  the  land  whose  hills  among 
That  voice  of  Victory  hath  not  rung, 

As  if  a  trumpet  spoke  ? 

To  sky,  and  sea,  and  shore 
Of  those  whose  blood,  on  Ilion's  plain, 
Swept  from  the  rivers  to  the  main, 

A  glorious  tale  it  bore. 

Still,  by  our  sun-bright  deep, 
With  all  the  fame  that  fiery  lay 
Threw  round  them,  in  its  rushing  way, 

The  sons  of  battle  sleep. 

And  kings  their  turf  have  crowned  ! 
And  pilgrims  o'er  the  foaming  wave 
Brought  garlands  there :  so  rest  the  brave, 

Who  thus  their  bard  have  found ! 

A  <roice  from  Scio's  isle, 
ft  voice  as  deep  hath  risen  again  1 
As  far  shall  peal  its  thrilling  strain, 

Where'er  our  sun  may  sraik  i 


Let  not  its  tones  expire  t 
Such  power  to  waken  earth  and  heaven, 
And  might  and  vengeance,  ne'er  was  given 

To  mortal  song  or  lyre  I 

Know  ye  not  whence  it  comes  ? 
From  ruined  hearths,  from  burning  fanes. 
From  kindred  blood  OP  yon  red  plains, 

From  desolated  homes. 

Tis  with  us  through  the  night  I 
Tis  on  our  hills,  'tis  in  our  sky — 
Hear  it,  ye  heavens  I  when  swords  flash  high, 

O'er  the  mid-waves  of  fight  1 


rv 
THE  SPARTAN'S  MARCH. 

( "  The  Spartans  used  not  the  trumpet  in  then 
march  into  battle,"  says  Thucydides,  "  becauss 
they  wished  not  to  excite  the  rage  of  their  war 
riors.  Their  charging  step  was  made  to  th? 
'  Dorian  mood  of  flutes  and  soft  recorders.'  The 
valour  of  a  Spartan  was  too  highly  tempered  to 
require  a  stunning  or  rousing  impulse.  His 
spirit  was  like  a  steed  too  proud  for  the  spur."— 
CAMPBELL,  On  the  Elegiac  Poetry  of  tht 
Greeks.] 

TWAS  morn  upon  the  Grecian  hills, 
Where  peasants  dressed  the  vines, 

Sunlight  was  on  Cithaeron's  rills, 
Arcadia's  rocks  and  pines. 

And  brightly,  through  his  reeds  and  flowers, 

Eurotas  wandered  by, 
When  a  sound  arose  from  Sparta's  towers 

Of  solemn  harmony. 

Was  it  the  hunters',  choral  strain 
To  the  woodland-goddess  poured  ? 

Did  virgin-hands  in  Pallas'  fane 
Strike  the  full-sounding  chord  ? 

But  helms  were  glancing  on  the  stream, 

Spears  ranged  in  close  array, 
And  shields  flung  back  a  glorious  beam 

To  the  morn  of  a  fearful  day  I 

And  the  mountain-echoes  of  the  land 
Swelled  through  the  deep-blue  sky, 

While  to  soft  strains  moved  forth  a  band 
Of  men  that  moved  to  die. 

They  marched  not  with  the  trumpet's  blast 

Nor  bade  the  horn  peal  out ; 
And  the  laurel-groves,  as  on  they  passed. 

Rang  with  no  battle-shout  1 

[  They  asked  no  clarion's  voice  to  fire 
Their  souls  with  an  impulse  high ; 


THE  MAREMMA. 


189 


But  the  Dorian  reed  and  the  Spartan  lyrt 
For  the  sons  of  liberty  ! 

And  still  sweet  flutes,  their  path  around, 

Sent  forth  Eolian  breath  ; 
They  needed  not  a  sterner  sound 

To  marshal  them  for  death ! 

So  moved  they  calmly  to  their  field, 

Thence  never  to  return, 
Save  bearing  back  the  Spartan  shield, 

Or  on  it  proudly  borne ! 


V. 

THE  URN  AND  SWORD. 

THEY  sought  for  treasures  in  the  tomb, 
Where  gentler  hands  were  wont  to  spread 

Fresh  boughs  and  flowers  of  purple  bloom, 
And  sunny  ringlets,  for  the  dead. 

They  scattered  far  the  greensward-heap, 
Where  once  those  hands  the  bright  wine 
poured ; 

What  found  they  in  the  home  of  sleep  ? — 
A  mouldering  um,  a  shivered  sword  I 

An  urn,  which  held  the  dust  of  one 
Who  died  when  hearths  and  shrines  were 
free; 

A  sword,  whose  work  was  proudly  done, 
Between  our  mountains  and  the  sea. 


And  these  are  treasures  1 — undismayed, 
Still  for  the  suffering  land  we  trust, 

Wherein  the  past  its  fame  hath  laid, 
With  freedom's  sword,  and  valour's  dust, 


VI. 

THE  MYRTLE-BOUGH. 

STILL  green,  along  our  sunny  shore 

The  flowering  myrtle  waves, 
As  when  its  fragrant  boughs  of  yore 

Were  offered  on  the  graves ; 
The  graves,  wherein  our  mighty  men 
Had  rest,  unviolated  then. 

Still  green  it  waves !  as  when  the  hearth 
Was  sacred  through  the  land  ; 

And  fearless  was  the  banquet's  mirth, 
And  free  the  minstrel's  hand ; 

And  guests,  with  shining  myrtle  crowned, 

Sent  the  wreathed  lyre  and  wine-cup  round  , 

Still  green  !  as  when  on  holy  ground 
The  tyrant's  blood  was  poured : — 

Forget  ye  not  what  garlands  bound 
The  young  deliverer's  sword  I — 

Though    earth   may  shroud   Harmodius 
now, 

We  still  have  sword  and  myrtle-bough  I 


1823. 
THE  MAREMMA. 


f"  Nello  D<  ila  Pietra  bad  espoused  a  lady  of  noble  family  at  Sienna,  named  Madonna  Pia 
\3er  beauty  was,  the  admiration  of  Tuscany;  and  excited  in  the  heart  of  her  husband  a  jealousy, 
which,  exasperated  by  false  reports  and  groundless  suspicions,  at  length  drove  him  to  the  despe- 
rate resolution  of  Othello.  It  is  difficult  to  decide  whether  the  lady  was  quite  innocent,  but  so 
Dante  represents  her.  Her  husband  brought  her  into  the  Maremma,  which,  then  as  now,  was  a 
district  destructive  of  health.  He  never  told  his  unfortunate  wife  the  reason  of  her  banishment  to 
so  dangerous  a  country.  He  did  not  deign  to  utter  complaint  or  accusation.  '  He  lived  with  her 
alone,  in  cold  silence,  without  answering  her  questions,  or  listening  to  her  remonstrances.  He 
patiently  waited  till  the  pestilential  air  should  destroy  the  health  of  this  young  lady.  In  a  few 
months  she  died.  Some  chronicles,  indeed,  tell  us  that  Nello  used  the  dagger  to  hasten  her  death. 
It  is  certain  that  he  survived  her,  plunged  in  sadness  and  perpetual  silence.  Dante  had,  in  this  in- 
cident, all  the  materials  of  an  ample  and  very  poetical  narrative.  But  he  bestows  on  it  only  four 
verses.  He  meets  in  Purgatory  three  spirits  ;  one  was  a  captain  who  fell  fighting  on  the  same  side 
with  him  in  the  battle  of  Cai  \pa!duzo  ;  the  second,  a  gentleman  assassinated  by  the  treachery  oi 
the  House  of  Este  ;  the  third  was  a  .woman  unknown  to  the  poet,  and  who,  after  the  others  had 
spoken,  turned  toward:)  him  with  these  words : — 

'  Recorditi  di  me ;  cbe  son  la  Pia, 
Sienna  wi  fe.  disfecerol  Maremw, 


ISO 


THE  MAREMMA. 


Sakl  colui  che  inanellata  pria 
Disposando  m"  area  con  la  sua  gemma."' 

Purgatorio,  cant,  v.— Edinburgh  Knitvi,  No  58.  J 

1  Mais  elle  e"tait  du  mpnde,  ou  les  plus  belles  cho^e: 

Ont  le  pire  destin  ; 

Et  Rose  elle  a  ve"cu  ce  que  vivent  les  roses, 
L'espace  d'un  matin. "— MALHBRBB. 


THEBE  are  bright  scenes  beneath  Italian 
skies,  [diffuse, 

Where  glowing   suns   their   purest  light 
Uncultured  flowers  in  wild  profusion  rise, 
And  nature  lavishes  her  warmest  hues  ; 
But  trust  thou  not  her  smile,  her  balmy 
breath,  [Death  i 

Awayl  her  charms  are  but  the  pomp  of 

He,  in  the  vine-clad  bowers,  unseen  is 
dwelling, 

Where  the  cool  shade  its  freshness  round 
thee  throws, 

His  voice,  in  ever/  perfumed  zephyr  swell- 
ing; 

With  gentlest  whisper  lures  thee  to  repose  ; 

And  the  soft  sounds  that  through  the  foliage 
sigh, 

But  woo  thee  still  to  slumber  and  to  die. 

Mysterious  danger  lurks,  a  syren  there, 
Not  robed  in  terrors  or  announced  in  gloom, 
But  stealing  o'er  thee  in  the  scented  air, 
And  veiled  in  flowers,  that  smile  to  deck 
thy  tomb :  [array, 

How  may  we  deem,  amidst  their  deep 
That  heaven  and  earth  but  flatter  to  betray? 

Sunshine,  and  bloom,  and  verdure  1  Can 
it  be  [wiles  ? 

That  these  but  charm  us  with  destructive 
Where  shall  we  turn,  O  Nature,  if  in  thee 
Danger  is  masked   in   beauty — death  in 

smiles  ? 

Oh  !  still  the  Circe  of  that  fatal  shore. 
Where  she,   the  Sun's  bright  daughter, 
dwelt  of  yore ! 

There,    year   by  year,  that  secret   peril 

spreads, 

Disguised  in  loveliness,  its  baleful  reign, 
And  viewless  blights  o'er  many  a  landscape 

sheds, 

Gay  with  the  riches  of  the  south,  in  vain ; 
O'er  fairy  bowers  and  palaces  of  state 
Passing  unseen,  to  leave  them  desolate. 

And  pillared  halls,  whose  airy  colonnades 
Were  formed  to  echo  music's  choral  tone, 


Are  silent  now,  amidst  deserted  shades. 
Peopled    by   sculpture's    graceful    form? 

alone ; 
And   fountains   dash   unheard,    by   lone 

alcoves, 
Neglected  temples,  and  forsaken  groves. 

Ancrthere,  where  marble  nymphs,  in  beautj 
gleaming,  [rise, 

'Midst  the  deep  shades  of  plane  and  cypress 

By  wave  or  grot  might  Fancy  linger, 
dreaming 

Of  old  Arcadia's  woodland(deities. 

Wild  visions ! — there  no  sylvan  powers 
convene  •  [scene. 

Death  reigns  the  genius  of  the  Elysiao 

Ye,  too,  illustrious  hills  of  Rome  1  that  bear 
Traces  of  mightier  beings  on  your  brow, 
O'er  you  that  subtle  spirit  of  the  air 
Extends  the  desert  of  his  empire  now  , 
Broods  o'er  the  wrecks  of  altar,  fane,  and 
dome,  [home. 

And  make  the  Caesar's  ruined  halls  bis 

Youth,  valour,  beauty,  oft  have  felt  his 
power,  $ot 

His  crowned  and  chosen  victims  •  o'er  their 
Hath  fond  affection  wept— each  blighted 

flower 
In  turn  was  loved  and  mourned,  and  is 

forgot. 

But  one  who  perished,  left  a  tale  of  woe, 
Meet  for  as  deep  a  sigh  as  pity  can  bestow. 

A  voice  of  music,  from  Sienna's  walls, 
Is  floating  joyous  on  the  summer  air ; 
And  there  are  banquets  in  her  stately  balk, 
And  graceful  revels  of  the  gay  and  fair, 
And    brilliant    wreaths    the    altar    have 
arrayed,  [maid. 

Where  meet  her  noblest  youth  and  loveliest 

To  that  young  bride  each  grace  hath 
Nature  given  [eye 

Which  glows  on  Art's  divinest  dream.   Her 

Hath  a  pure  sunbeam  of  her  native 
heaven—  [dye ! 

Her  cheek  a  tinge  of  morning's  richest 


THE  XARBMMA. 


191 


Fair  as  that  daughter  of  the  south,  whose 

form  [warm.* 

Still  breathes  and  charms  in  Vinci's  colours 

But  is  she  blest  ? — for  sometimes  o'er  her 

smile 

A  soft  sweet  shade  of  pensiveness  is  cast ; 
And  in  her  liquid  glance  there  seems  awhile 
To  dwell  some  thought  whose  soul  is  with 

the  past ;  [trace, 

Vet  soon  it  flies — a  cloud  that  leaves  no 
On  the  sky's  azure,  of  its  dwelling-place. 

Perchance,  at  times,  within  hor  heart  may 

rise 

Remembrance  of  some  early  love  or  woe, 
Faded,  yet  scarce  forgotten — in  her  eyes 
Wakening  the  half-formed  tear  that  may 

not  flow, 

Vet  radiant  seems  her  lot  as  aught  on  earth, 
Where  still  some  pining   thought  comes 

darkly  o'er  our  mirth. 

The  world  before  her  smiles— its  changeful 
gaze  [gay 

She  hath  not  proved  as  yet ;  her  path  seems 

With  flowers  and  sunshine,  and  the  voice 
of  praise 

Is  still  the  joyous  herald  of  her  way  ; 

And  beauty's  light  around  her  dwells,  to 
throw 

O'er  every  scene  its  own  resplendent  glow. 

Such  is  the  young  Bianca— graced  with  all 
That  nature,  fortune,  youth,  at  once  can 

give; 

Pure  in  their  loveliness,  her  looks  recall 
Such  dreams  as  ne'er  life's  early  bloom 

survive ;  [is  fraught 

And  when  she  speaks,  each  thrilling  tone 
With  sweetness,  born  of  high  and  heavenly 

thought 

And  he  to  whom  are  breathed  her  vows  of 

faith 

Is  brave  and  noble.  Child  of  high  descent, 
H  e  hath  stood  fearless  in  the  ranks  of  death , 
'Mid slaughtered  heaps,  the  warrior's  monu- 
ment ;  [way 
And  proudly  marshalled  his  carroccio'st 
Amidst  the  wildest  wreck  of  war's  array. 


•  An  allusion  to  Leonardo  da  Vinci's  picture 
of  his  wife  Mona  Lisa,  supposed  to  be  the  most 
perfect  imitation  of  nature  ever  exhibited  in 
painting." — S«e \\S\Rl'&£ives  of  the  Painttrs. 

f  C«irrocrio.  3  sort  of  consecrated  ww-chariot. 


And  his  the  chivalrous  commanding  mien.. 
Where    high-born   grandeur   blends  with 

courtly  grace  !  [seen, 

Yet  may  a  lightning  glance  at  times  be 
Of  fiery  passions,  darting  o'er  his  face, 
And  fierce  the  spirit  kindling  in  his  eye — 
But  even  while  yet  we  gaze,  its  quick  wild 

flashes  die. 

And  calmly  can  Pietra  smile,  concealing. 
As  if  forgotten,  vengeance,  hate,  /emorse. 
And  veil  the  workings  of  each  darkei 

feeling, 

Deep  in  his  soul  concentrating  its  force : 
Rut  yet  he  loves — oh  I  who  hath  loved  noi 

known  [own ! 

Affection's  power  exalt  the  bosom  all  its 

The  days  roll  on—  and  still  Bianca's  lot 
Seems  as  a  path  of  Eden.  Thou  might 's» 

deem 

That  grief,  the  mighty  chastener,  had  forgot 
To  wake  her  soul  from  life's  enchanted 

dream ; 

And,  if  her  brow  a  moment's  sadness  wear, 
It  sheds  but  grace  more  intellectual  there. 

A  few  short  years,  and  all  is  changed :  her 
fate  [o'ercast. 

Seems  with  some  deep  mysterious  cloud 
Have  jealous  doubts  transformed  to  wiath 
and  hate  [surpassed? 

The  love  whose  glow  expression's  power 
Lo  !  on  Pietra's  brow  a  sullen  gloom 
Is  gathering  day  by  day,  prophetic  of  her 
doom. 

Oh  I  can  he  meet  that  eye,  of  light  serent, 
Whence  the  pure  spirit  looks  in  radiance 

forth, 

And  view  that  bright  intelligence  of  mien 
Formed  to  express  but  thoughts  of  loftiest 

worth,  [reign  ? 

Yet  deem  that  vice  within  that  heart  can 
— How  shall  he  e  er  confide  in  aught  on 

earth  again  ? 

In  silence  oft,  with  strange  vindictive  gaze, 
Transient,  yet  filled  with  meaning  strange 

and  wild, 

Her  features  calm  in  beauty  he  surveys. 
Then  turns  away,  and  fixes  on  her  child 
So  dark  a  glance  that  thrills  a  mother's 

mind  [undefined. 

With  some  vague  feai  scarce  owned,  and 

There  stands  a  lonely  dwelling  by  the  wave 
Of  the  blue  deep  which  bathes  I  tafia's  shore. 


192 


THE  MAEEMMA. 


Far  from  all  sounds  but  rippling  seas  that 
lave  [o'er, 

Grey  rocks  with  foliage  richly  shadowed 

And  sighing  winds,  that  murmur  through 
the  wood, 

Fringing  the  beach  of  that  Hesperian  flood. 

Fair  is  that  house  of  solitude — arid  fair 
The  green  Maremma,  far  around  it  spread, 
A  sun-bright  waste  of  beauty.  Yet  an  air 
Of  brooding  sadness  o'er  the  scene  is  shed  ! 
No  human  footstep  tracks  the  lone  domain, 
The  desert  of  luxuriance  glows  in  vain. 

And  silent  are  the  marble  halls  that  rise 
'Mid  founts,  and  cypress  walks,  and  olive 

groves : 

All  sleep  in  sunshine  'neath  cerulean  skies, 
And  still  around  the  sea-breeze  lightly  roves; 
Yet  every  trace  of  man  reveals  alone, 
That  there  once  life  hath  flourished — and 

is  gone. 

There,    till   around    them   slowly,    softly 

stealing, 

The  summer  air.  deceit  in  every  sigh, 
Came  fraught  with  death,  its  power  no  sign 

revealing, 

T'jy  sires,  Pietra,  dwelt  in  days  gone  by  ; 
And  strains  of  mirth  and    melody  have 

flowed  [abode. 

Where  stands,  all  voiceless  now.  the  still 

And  thither  doth  her  lord  remorseless  bear 
Bianca  with  her  child.     His  altered  eye 
And  brow  a  stern  and   fearful  calmness 

wear, 
While  his  dark  spirit  seals  their  doom — to 

die  ; 

And  the  deep  bodings  of  his  victim's  heart 
Tell  her  from  fruitless  hope  at  once  to  part. 

It  is  the  summer's  glorious  prime — and 
blending  [deep, 

Its  blue  transparence  with  the  skies,  the 
Each  tint  of  heaven  upon  its  breast  descend- 
ing. 

Scarce  murmurs  as  it  heaves  in  glassy  sleep, 
And  on  its  wave  reflects,  more  softly  bright, 
That  lovely  shore  of  solitude  and  light. 

Fragrance  in  each  warm  southern  gale  is 
breathing, 

Decked  with_  young  flowers  the  rich  Ma- 
remma glows, 

Neglected  vines  tbe  trees  are  wildly 
wreathing, 

And  the  tresh  myrUs  w  e*tiberance  blows. 


And,  far  and  round,   a  deep  and  sunny 

bloom  [tomb. 

Mantles  the  scene,  as  garlands  robe  the 

Yes  !  'tis  thy  tomb,  Bianca,  fairest  flower  I 
The  voice  that  calls  thee  speaks  in  every 

gale,  [power, 

Which,  o'er  thee  breathing  with  insidious 
Bids  the  young  roses  of  thy  cheek  turn  pale ; 
And  fatal  in  its  softness,  day  by  day, 
Steals  from  that  eye  some  trembling  sparh 

away. 

But  sink  not  yet ;  for  there  are  darker  woes, 
Daughter  of  Beauty!  in  thy  spring-morn 

fading—  [those 

Sufferings  more  keen  for  thee  reserved  than 
Of  lingering  death,  which  thus  thine  eye 

are  shading ! 

Nerve  then  thy  heart  to  meet  that  bitter  lot : 
'Tis  agony— but  soon  to  be  forgot  I 

What  deeper  pangs  maternal  hearts  can 

wring, 

Than  hourly  to  behold  (he  spoiler's  breath 
Shedding,  as  mildews  on  the  bloom  of 

spring,  [death  ? 

O'er  infancy's   fair  cheek   the   blight  of 
To  gaze  and  shrink,  as  gathering  shades 

o'ercast  [last ! 

The  pale  smooth  brow,  yet  watch  it  to  the 

Such  pangs  were  thine,   young  mother  I 

Thou  didst  bend  [head  : 

O'er  thy  fair  boy,  and  raise  his  drooping 

And   faint   and  hopeless,   far   from  every 

friend, 

Keep  thy  sad  midnight  vigils  near  his  bed. 
And  watch  his  patient  supplicating  eye 
Fixed  upon  thee — on  thee  ! — who  couldst 
no  aid  supply  ' 

There  was  no  voice  to  cheer  thy  lonely  wot 
Through  those  dark  hours ;    to  thee  the 

wind's  low  sigh, 

And  the  faint  murmur  of  the  ocean's  flow, 
Came  like  some  spirit  whispering — "  He 

must  die  !" 
And  thou  didst  vainly  clasp  him  to  the 

breast  [hope  bad  blest. 

His  young  and  sunny  smile  so  oft  with 

'Tis  past,  that  fearful  trial  l — he  is  gone  I 
But  thou.  sad  mourner !  hast  not  long  to 
weep ;  [on, 

The  hour  of  nature's  chartered  peace  comes 
And  thou  sha.lt  share  thine  infant's  holy 


A  TALE  OF  THE  SECRET  TRIBUNAL. 


193 


A  few  short  sufferings  yet— and  death  shall 

be   , 
As  a  bright  messenger  from  heaven  to  thee. 

But   ask   not — hope    not — one   relenting 
thought  [away, 

From  him  who  doomed  thee  thus  to  waste 
Whose  heart,  with  sullen  speechless  ven- 
geance fraught, 

Broods  in  dark  triumph  o'er  thy  slow  decay; 
And  coldly,  sternly,  silently  can  trace 
The  gradual  withering  of  each  youthful 
grace. 

And  yet  the  day  of  vain  remorse  shall  come, 
When  thou,  bright  victim  1  on  his  dreams 

shalt  rise 

As  an  accusing  angel — and  thy  tomb, 
A  martyr's  shrine,  be  hallowed  in  his  eyes  1 
Then  shall  thine    innocence   his   bosom 

wring,  [pangs  could  sting. 

More  than  thy  fancied  guilt  with  jealous 

Lift  thy  meek  eyes  to  heaven-*for  all  on 

earth,  [art  lone : 

Young  sufferer,  fades  before  thee.    Thou 

Hope,  Fortune,  Love,  smiled  brightly  on 

thy  birth, 

Thine  hour  of  death  is  all  Affliction's  own ! 
It  is  our  task  to  suffer — and  our  fate 
To  learn  that  mighty  lesson  soon  or  late. 


The  season's  glory  fades — the  vintage-lay 
Through  joyous  Italy  resounds  no  more ; 
But  mortal  loveliness  hath  passed  away, 
Fairer  than  aught  in   summer's  glowing 

store.  [such 

Beauty  and  youth  are  gone — behold  them 
As  death  has  made  them  with  his  blighting 

couch  1 

The  summer's  breath  came  o'er  them— and 

they  died  I 

Softly  it  came  to  give  luxuriance  birth, 
Called  forth  young  nature  in  her  festal 

pride, 
But  bore  to  them  their  summons  from  the 

earth! 

Again  shall  blow  that  mild,  delicious  breeze, 
And  wake  to  light  and  life — all  flowers—- 
but these. 

No  sculptured  urn,  nor  verse  thy  virtues 
telling, 

O  lost  and  loveliest  one !  adorns  thy  grave ; 

But  o'er  that  humble  cypress-shaded  dwell- 
ing [wave — 

The  dewdrops"  glisten  and  the  wild-flowers 

Emblems  more  meet,  in  transient  light  and 
bloom, 

For  thee,  who  thus  didst  p?ss  in  brightness 
to  the  tomb  1 


A  TALE  OF  THE  SECRET  TRIBUNAL. 

[The  following  account  of  the  extraordinary  association  called  the  Secret  Tribunal  is  pivsn  by 
Madame  de  Stael: — "Des  juges  mysterieux,  inconnus  Tun  a  1'autre,  toujours  masques,  et  se 
rassemblant  pendant  la  nuit,  punissaient  dans  le  silence,  et  gravaient  seulement  sur  le  poignard 
qu'ils  enfoncaient  dans  le  sein  du  coupable  ce  mot^  terrible  :  TRIBUNAL  SECRET.  Us  prevenaient 
le  condamne,  en  faisant  crier  trois  fois  sous  les  fenetres  de  sa  maison,  Malheur,  Malheur,  Malheurt 
Alors  I'infortune'  savait  que  par-tout,  dans  1'e'trangcr,  dans  son  concitoyen,  dans  son  parent  meme. 
il  pouvoit  trouver  son  meurtrier.  La  solitude,  la  foule,  les  villes,  les  carapagues,  tout  e'tait  rempli 
par  la  presence  invisible  de  cette  conscience  armee  qui  poursuivait  criminels."] 


PART  FIRST. 

NIGHT  veiled  the  mountains  of  the  vine, 
And  storms  had  roused  the  foaming  Rhine, 
And,  mingling  with  the  pinewood's  roar, 
Its  billows  hoarsely  chafed  the  shore, 
While  glen  and  cavern,  to  their  moans 
Gave  answer  with  a  thousand  tones. 
Then,  as  the  voice  of  storms  appalled 
The  peasant  of  the  Odenwald, 
Shuddering  he  deemed,  that  far  on  high, 
Twas  the  Wild  Huntsman  rushing  by, 
Riding  the  blast  with  phantom  speed, 
With  cry  of  hound  and  tramp  of  steed, 


While  his  fierce  train,  as  on  they  flew,  v 
Their  horns  in  savage  chorus  blew, 
Till  rock,  and  tower,  and  convent  round, 
Rang  to  the  shrill  unearthly  sound. 

Vain  dreams  !  far  other  footsteps  traced 
The  forest  paths,  in  secret  haste ; 
Far  other  sounds  were  on  the  night, 
Though  lost  amidst  the  tempest's  might, 
That  filled  the  echoing  earth  and  sky 
With  its  own  awful  harmony. 
There  stood  a  lone  and  rained  fane 
Far  on  in  OdenwaM's  domain, 


194 


A  TALE  OF  TEE  SECRET  TRIBUNAL. 


'Midst  wood  and  rock,  a  deep  recess 
Of  still  and  shadowy  loneliness. 
Long  grass  its  pavement  had  o'ergrown, 
The  wild-flower  waved  o'er  the  altar  stone, 
The  night-wind  rocked  the  tottering  pile, 
As  it  swept  along  the  roofless  aisle, 
For  the  .forest  boughs  and  the  stormy  sky 
Were  all  that  minster's  canopy. 

Many  a  broken  image  lay 
In  the  mossy  mantle  of  decay, 
And  partial  light  the  moonbeams  darted 
O'er  trophies  of  the  long  departed  ; 
For  there  the  chiefs  of  other  days, 
The  mighty,  slumbered  with  their  praise  : 
'Twas  long  since  aught  but  the  dews  of 

heaven 

A  tribute  to  their  bier  had  given, 
Long  since  a  sound  but  the  moaning  blast 
Above  their  voiceless  home  had  passed. 
— So  slept  the  proud,  and  with  them  all 
The  records  of  their  fame  and  fall ; 
Helmet  and  shield,  and  sculptured  crest, 
Adorned  the  dwelling  of  their  rest, 
And.  emblems  of  the  Holy  Land 
IVere  carved  by  some  forgotten  hand. 
But  the  helm  was  broke,  the  shield  defaced, 
And  the  crest  through  weeds  might  scarce 

be  traced ; 

And  the  scattered  leaves  of  the  northern  pine 
Half  hid  the  palm  of  Palestine. 
So  slept  the  glorious — lowly  laid, 
As  the  peasant  in  his  native  shade  ; 
Some  hermit's  tale,  some  shepherd's  rhyme, 
All  that  high  deeds  could  win  from  time  I 

What  footsteps  move  with  measured  tread 
Amid  those  chambers  of  the  dead  ? 
What  silent  shadowy  beings  glide  ' 
Low  tombs  and  mouldering  shrines  beside, 
Peopling  the  wild  and  solemn  scene 
With  forms  well  suited  to  its  mien  ? 
Wanderer,  away  1  let  none  intrude 
On  their  mysterious  solitude  1 
Lo  I  these  are  they,  thai  awful  band, 
The  secret  watchers  of  the  land — 
They  that  unknown  and  uncontrolled, 
Their  dark  and  dread  tribunal  hold. 
They  meet  not  in  the  monarch's  dome, 
They  meet  not  in  the  chieftain's  home ; 
But  where,  unbounded  o'er  their  heads, 
All  heaven  magnificently  spreads, 
And  from  its  depths  of  cloudless  blue 
The  eternal  stars  their  deeds  may  view  ! 
Where  er  the  flowers  of  the  mountain  sod 
By  roving  foot  are  seldom  trod  ;• 
Where'er  wild  legends  mark  a  spot. 
By  mortals  shunned,  but  un  forgot ; 


There,  circled  by  the  shades  of  night, 
They  judge  of  crimes  that  shrink  front 

light; 

And  guilt  that  deems  its  secret  known 
To  the  One  unslumbering  eye  alone, 
Yet  hears  their  name  with  a  sudden  start, 
As  an  icy  touch  had  chilled  the  heart, 
For  the  shadow  of  the  avenger's  hand 
Rests  dark  and  heavy  on  the  land. 

There  rose  a  voice  from  the  ruin's  gloom, 
And  woke  the  echoes  of  the  tomb, 
As  if  the  noble  hearts  beneath 
Sent  forth  deep  answers  to  its  breath. 
— "  When  the  midnight  stars  are  burning, 
And  the  dead  to  earth  returning ; 
When  the  spirits  of  the  blest 
Rise  upon  the  good  man's  rest ; 
When  each  whisper  of  the  gale 
Bids  the  cheek  of  guilt  turn  pale ; 
In  the  shadow  of  the  hour 
That  o'er  the.  soul  hath  deepest  power, 
Why  thus  meet  we,  but  to  call 
For  judgment  on  the,criminal? 
Why,  but  the  doom  of  guilt  to  seal 
And  point  the  avenger's  holy  steel  ? 
A  fearful  oath  has  bound  our  souls, 
A  fearful  power  our  arm  controls  I 
There  is  an  ear  awake  on  high 
Even  to  thought's  whispers  ere  they  dre ;' 
There  is  an  eye  whose  beam  pervades 
All  depthSj  all  deserts,  and  all  shades : 
That  ear  hath  heard  our  awful  vow, 
That  searching  eye  is  on  us  now  ! 
Let  him  whose  heart  is  unprofaned, 
Whose  hand   no  blameless    blood    hath 

stained — 

Let  him  whose  thoughts  no  record  keep 
Of  crimes  in  silence  buried  deep, 
Here,  in  the  face  of  heaven,  accuse 
The  guilty  whom  its  wrath  pursues  1" 

Twas  hushed — that  voice  of  thrilling 

sound  I 

And  a  dead  silence  reigned  around. 
Then  stood  forth  one,  whose  dim-seen  font 
Towered  like  a  phantom  in  the  storm ; 
Gathering  bus,  mantle,  as  a  cloud, 
With  his  dark  folds  his  face  to  shroud, 
Through  pillared  arches  on  he  passed, 
With  stately  step,  and  paused  at  last, 
Where,  on  the  altar's  mouldering  stone, 
The  fitful  moonbeam  brightly  shone ; 
Then  on  the  fearful  stillness  broke 
Low  solemn  tones,  as  thus  he  spoke. 

"  Before  that  eye  whose  glance  pervades 
All  depths,  all  deserts,  and  all  shades ; 


A  TALE  OF  THE  SECRET  TRIBUNAL. 


195 


Heard  by  that  ear  awake  on  high 

Even  to  thought's  Whispers  ere  they  die — 

With  all  a  mortal's  awe  I  stand.. 

Yet  with  pure  heart  and  stainless  hand. 

To  heaven  I  lift  that  hand,  and  call 

For  judgment  on  the  criminal : 

The  earth  is  dyed  with  bloodshed's  hues — 

It  cries  for  vengeance.    I  accuse  I" 

"  Name  thou  the  guilty  1    Say  for  whom 
Thou  claim'st  the  inevitable  doom." 

"Albert  of  Lindheim — to  the  skies 
The  voice  of  blood  against  him  cries ; 
A  brother's  blood—his  hand  is  dyed 
With  the  deep  stain  of  fratricide. 
One  hour,  one  moment,  hath  revealed 
What  years  in  darkness  had  concealed, 
But  all  in  vain — the  gulf  of  time 
Refused  to  close  upon  his  crime ; 
And  guilt  that  slept  on  flowers  shall  know 
The  earthquake  was  but  hushed  below ' 
— Here,  where  amidst  the  noble  dead, 
Awed  by  their  fame,  he  dare  not  tread  ; 
•Where,  left  by  him  to  dark  decay, 
Their  trophies  moulder  fast  away, 
Around  us  'and  beneath  us  lie 
The  relics  of  his  ancestry— 
The  chiefs  of  Lindheim's  ancient  race, 
Each  in  his  last  low  dwelling-place. 
But  one  is  absent — o'er  his  grave 
The  palmy  shades  of  Syria  wave ; 
Far  distant  from  his  native  Rhine, 
Ke  died  unmourned  in  Palestine ; 
The  Pilgrim  sought  the  Holy  Land 
To  perish  by  a  brother's  hand  ! 
Peace  to  his  soul )  though  o'er  his  bed 
No  dirge  be  poured,  no  tear  be  shed, 
Though  all  he  loved  his  name  forget, 
They  live  who  shall  avenge  him  yet  1" 


' '  There  is  an  hour  when  vain  remorse 
First  wakss  in  her  eternal  force ; 
When  pardon  may  not  be  retrieved, 
When  conscience  will  not  be  deceived. 
He  that  beheld  the  victim  bleed — 
Beheld  and  aided  in  the  deed- 
When  earthly  fears  had  lost  their  power, 
Revealed  the  tale  in  such  an  hour, 
Unfolding  with  his  latest  breath 
All  that  gave  keener  pangs  to  death." 

"  By  Him,  the  All-seeing  and  Unseen, 
Who  Is  for  ever,  and  hath  been, 


And  by  the  atoner's  cross  adored;' 
And  by  the  avenger's  holy  sword, 
By  truth  eternal  and  divine, 
Accuser !  wilt  thou  swear  to  thine?" 
— "The  cross  upon  my  heart  is  prest, 
I  hold  the  dagger  to  my  breast  1 
If  false  the  tale  whose  truth  I  swear, 
Be  mine  the  murderer's  doom  to  bear !" 
Then  sternly  rose  the  dread  reply — 
"His  days  are  numbered — he  must  die \ 
There  is  no  shadow  of  the  night 
So  deep  as  to  conceal  his  flight ; 
Earth  doth  not  hold  so  lone  a  waste 
Biit  there  his  footsteps  shall  be  traced  ; 
Devotion  hath  no  shrine  so  blest 
That  there  in  safety  he  may  rest. 
Where'er  he  treads,  let  vengeance  there 
Around  him  spread  her  secret  snare. 
In  the  busy  haunts  of  men, 
In  the  still  and  shadowy  glen, 
When  the  social  board  is  crowned, 
When  the  wine-cup  sparkles  round  ; 
When  his  couch  of  sleep  is  pressed. 
And  a  dream  his  spirit's  guest ; 
When  his  bosom  knows  no  fear, 
Let  the  dagger  still  be  near, 
Till,  sudden  as  the  lightning's  dart, 
Silent  and  swift  it  reach  his  heart. 
One  warning  voice,  one  fearful  word, 
Ere  morn  beneath  his  towers  be  heard, 
Then  vainly  may  the  guilty  fly, 
Unseen,  unaided,— he  must  die  I 
Let  those  he  loves  prepare  his  tomb, 
Let  friendship  lure  him  to  his  doom  1 
Perish  his  deeds,  his  name,  his  race, 
Without  a  record  or  a  trace  ! 
Away  I  be  watchful,  swift  and  free, 
To  wreak  the  invisible's  decree. 
'Tis  passed — the  avenger  claims  his  prey  : 
On  to  the  chase  of  death— away  I" 

And  all  was  still.    The  sweeping  blast 
Caught  not  a  whisper  as  it  passed  ; 
The  shadowy  forms  were  seen  no  more, 
The  tombs  deserted  as  before  ; 
And  the  wide  forest  waved  immense 
In  dark  and  lone  magnificence. 


IN  Lindheim's  towers  the  feast  had  closed ; 
The  song  was  hushed,  the  bard  reposed ; 
Sleep  settled  on  the  weary  guest, 
And  the  castle's  lord  retired  to  rest. 
To  rest  ?    The  captive  doomed  to.  die 
May  slumber,  when  his  hour  is  nigh  ; 
The  seaman,  when  the  billows  foam, 
Rocked  on  the  mast,  may  dream  of  home  ? 


196 


A  TALE  OF  THE  SECRET  TRIBUNAL. 


The  warrior,  on  the  battle's  eve, 
May  win  from  care  a  short  reprieve : 
But  earth  tend  heaven  alike  deny 
Their  peace  to  guilt's  o'erwearied  eye  ; 
And  night,  that  brings  to  grief  a  calm, 
To  toil  a  pause,  to  pain  a  balm, 
Hath  spells  terrific  in  her  course, 
Dread  sounds  and  shadows,  for  Remorse — 
Voices,  that  long  from  earth  have  fled, 
And  steps  and  echoes  from  the  dead, 
And'  many  a  dream  whosa  forms  arise 
Like  a  dark  world's  realities  ! 
Call  them  not  vain  illusions — born 
But  for  the  wise  and  brave  to  scorn  t 
Heaven,  that  the  penal  doom  defers, 
Hath  yet  its  thousand  ministers, 
To  scourge  the  heart,  unseen,  unknown, 
In  shade,  in  silence,  and  alone, 
Concentrating  in  one  brief  hour 
Ages  of  retribution's  power  1 
— If  thou  wouldst  know  the  lot  of  those 
Whose  souls  are  dark  with  guilty  woes, 
Ah  !  seek  them  not  where  pleasure's  throng 
Are  listening  to  the  voice  of  song  ; 
Seek  them  not  where  the  banquet  glows, 
And  the  red  vineyard's  nectar  flows  : 
There,  mirth  may  flush  the  hollow  chesk, 
The  eye  of  feverish  joy-may  speak, 
And  smrles,  the  ready  mask  of  pride, 
The  canker-worm  within  may  hide.  . 
Heed  not  those  signs — they  but, delude ; 
Follow,  and  mark  their  solitude  I 


The  song  is  hushed,  the  feast  is  done, 
And  Lindheim's  lord  remains  alone — 
Alone  in  silence  and  unrest, 
With  the  dread  secret  of  his  breast ; 
Aloi.e  with  anguish  and  with  fear — 
There  needs  not  an  avenger  here ! 
Behold  him  I    Why  that  sudden  start  ? 
Thou  hear'st  the  beating  of  thy  heart  I 
fhou  hear'st  the  night-wind's  hollow  sigh, 
Thou  hear'st  the  rustling  tapestry  ! 
No  sound  but  these  may  near  thee  be  ; 
Sleep  1  all  things  earthly  sleep,  but  thee. 
— No  !  there  are  murmurs  on  the  air, 
And  a  voice  is  heard  that  cries— ' '  Despair  1" 
And  he  who  trembles  fain  would  deem 
'Twas  the  whisper  of  a  waking  dream. 
.Was  it  but  this?  Again  !  'tis  there  : 
Again  is  heard — "  Despair  !  Despair  f" 
'Tis  past — its  tones  have  slowly  died 
In  echoes  on  the  mountain  side ; 
Heard  but  by  him,  they  rose,  they  fell, 
He  kn«#  their  fearful  meaning  well, 
And  shrinking  from  the  midnight  gloom,. 
As  fr\jm  the  shadow  of  the  tomb, 


Yet  shuddering,  turned  in  pale  dismay, 
When  broke  the  dawn's  first  kindling  ray, 
And  sought,  amidst  the  forest  wild, 
Some  shade  where  sunbeam  never  smiled. 

Yes  !   hide  thee,  Guilt  I   The  laughing 

morn 

Wakes  in  a  heaven  of  splendour  born  ; 
The  storms  that  shook  the  mountain  crest 
Have  sought  their  viewless  world  of  rest. 
High  from  his  cliffs,  with  ardent  t;aze, 
Soars  the  young  eagle  in  the  blaze, 
Exulting  as  he  wings  his  way, 
To  revel  in  the  fount  of  day. 
And  brightly  past  his  banks  of  vine, 
In  glory,  flows  the  monarch  Rhine  ; 
And  joyous  peals  the  vintage  song 
His  wild  luxuriant  shores  along, 
As  peasant  bands,  from  rock  and  dell, 
Their  strains  of  choral  transport  swell. 
And  cliffs  of  bold  fantastic  forms, 
Aspiring  to  the  realm  of  storms, 
And  woods  around  and  waves  below  • 
Catch  the  red  Orient's  deepening  glow, 
That  lends  each  tower  and  convent  spire 
A  tinge  of  its  ethereal  fire. 


SWELL  high  the  song  of  festal  hours  ! 
Deck  ye  the  shrine  with  living  flowers  I 
Let  music  o'er  the  water  breathe  I 
Let  beauty  twine  the  bridal  wreath  ! 
While  she,  whose  blue  eye  laughs  in  light, 
Whose  cheek  with  love's  own  hue  is  bright, 
The  fair-haired  maid  'of  Lindheim's  hall 
Wakes  to  her  nuptial  festival. 
—•Oh  !  who  hath  seen,  in  dreams  that  soar 
To  worlds  the  soul  would  fain  explore, 
When,  for  her  own  blest  country  pining, 
Its  beauty  o'er  her  thought  is  shining, — 
Some  form  of  heaven,  whose  cloudless  eye 
Was  all  one  beam  of  ecstasy  ; 
Whose  glorious  brow  no  traces  wore 
Of  guilt,  or  sorrow  known  before  ; 
Whose  smile  undimmed  by  aught  of  earth, 
A  sunbeam  of  immortal  birth, 
Spoke  of  bright  realms  far  distant  lying, 
Where  love  and  joy  are  both  undying  ? 
Even  thus — a  vision  of  delight, 
A  beam  to  gladden  mortal  sight, 
A  flower  whose  head  no  storm  has  bowed, 
Whose  leaves  ne'er   dropped    beneath  a 

cloud — 

Thus,  by  the  world  unstained,  untried, 
Seemed  that  beloved  and  lovely  bride : 
A  being  all  too  soft  and  fair 
One  breath  of  earthly  woe  to  bear. 


A  TALE  OF  THE  SECRET  TRIBUNAL. 


197 


Vet  lives  there  many  a  lofty  mind 
In  light  and  fragile  form  enshrined  ; 
And  oft  smooth  cheek  and  smiling  eye 
Hide  strength  to  suffer  and  to  die. 
Judge  not  of  woman's  heart  in  hours 
That  strew  her  path  with  summer  flowers, 
When  joy's  full  cup  is  mantling  high, 
When  flattery's  blandishments  are  nigh  : 
Judge  her  not  then  I  within  her  breast 
Are  energies  unseen,  that  rest. 
They  wait  their  call — and  grief  alone 
May  make  the  soul's  deep  secrets  known. 
Yes  !  let  her  smile  'midst  pleasure's  train, 
Leading  the  reckless  and  the  vain  I 
Firm  on  the  scaffold  she  hath  stood, 
Besprinkled  with  the  martyr's  blood  ; 
Her  voice  the  patriot's  heart  hath  steeled, 
Her  spirit  glowed  on  battlefield  ; 
Her  courage  freed  from  (hingeon's  gloom 
The  captive  brooding  o'er  his  doom  ; 
Her  faith  the  fallen  monarch  saved, 
Her  love  the  tyrant's  fury  braved  ; 
No  scene  of  danger  or  despair, 
But  she  hath  won  her  triumph  there  I 

Away  !  nor  cloud  the  festal  morn 
With  thoughts  of  boding  sadness  born. 
Far  other,  lovelier  dreams  are  thine, 
Fair  daughter  of  a  noble  line  I 
Young  Ella  I  from  thy  tower  whose  height 
Hath  caught  the  flush  of  eastern  light, 
Watching,  while  soft  the  morning  air 
Parts  on  thy  brow  the  sunny  hair, 
Yon  bark,  that  o'er  the  calm  blue  tide 
Bears  thy  loved  warrior  to  his  bride — 
Him,  whose  high  deeds  romantic  praise 
Hath  hallowed  with  romantic  lays. 

He  came,  that  youthful  chief— he  came, 
That  favoured  lord  of  love  and  fame ; 
His  step  was  hurried — as  of  one 
Who  seeks  a  voice  within  to  shun ; 
His  cheek  was  varying,  and  expressed 
The  conflict  of  a  troubled  breast ; 
His  eye  was  anxious — doubt  and  dread, 
And  a  stern  grief,  might  there  be  read. 
Yer  all  that  marked  his  altered  mien 
Seemed  struggling  to  be  still  unseen. 

With  shrinking  heart,  with  nameless  fear, 
Young  Ella  met  the  brow  austere, 
And  the  wild  look,  which  seemed  to  fly 
The  timid  welcomes  of  her  eye. 
Was.that  a  lover's  gaze  which  chilled 
The  soul,  its  awful  sadness  thrilled? 
A  lover's  brow,  so  darkly  fraught 
With  all  the  heaviest  gloom  of  thought  ? 
She  trembled.    Ne'er  to  grief  inured, 
By  its  dread  lessons  ne'er  matured, 


Unused  to  meet  a  glance  of  less 
Than  all  a  parent's  tenderness, 
Shuddering  she  felt  through  every  sense 
The  deathlike  faintness  of  suspense. 

High  o'er  the  windings  of  the  flood, 
On  Lindheim's  terraced  rocks  they  stood, 
Whence  the  free  sight  afar  might  stray 
O'er  that  imperial  river's  way, 
Which,  rushing  from  its  Alpine  source, 
Makes  one  long  triumph  of  its  course, 
Rolling  in  tranquil  grandeur  by 
'Midst  nature's  noblest  pageantry. 
But  they,  o'er  that  majestic  scene, 
With  clouded  brow  and  anxious  mien, 
In  silence  gazed.    For  Ella's  heart 
Feared  its  own  terrors  to  impart : 
And  he,  who  vainly  strove  to  hide 
His  pangs,  with  all  a  warrior's  pride,) 
Seemed  gathering  courage  to  unfold 
Some  fearful  tale  that  must  be  tpld. 

At  length  his  mien,  his  voice,  obtained' 
A  calm  that  seemed  by  conflicts  gained, 
As  thus  he  spoke — "  Yes  I  gaze  awhile 
On  the  bright  scenes  that  round  thee  smile ; 
For,  if  thy  love  be  firm  and  true, 
Soon  must  thou  bid  their  charms  adieu. 
A  fate  hangs  o'er  us  whose  decree 
Must  bear  me  far  from  them  or  thee. 
Our  path  is  one  of  snares  and  fear — 
I  lose  thee  if  I  linger  here. 
Droop  not,  beloved  I  thy  home  shall  rise 
As  fair,  beneath  far-distant  skies ; 
As  fondly  tenderness  and  truth 
Shall  cherish  there  thy  rose  of  youth. 
But  speak  I  and  when  yon  hallowed  shrine 
Hath  heard  the  vows  which  make  thee 

mine, 

Say,  wilt  thou  fly  with  me,  no  more 
To  tread  thine  own  loved  mountain-shore. 
But  share  and  soothe,  repining  not. 
The  bitterness  of  exile's  lot  ?" 

"  Ulric !  thou  know'st  how  dearly  loved 
The  scenes  where  first  my  childhood  roved  ; 
The  woods,  the  rocks,  that  tower  supreme 
Above  our  own  majestic  stream ; 
The  halls  where  first  my  heart  beat  high 
To  the  proud  songs  of  chivalry. 
All,  all  are  dear — yet  these  are  ties 
Affection  well  may  sacrifice ; 
Loved  though  they  be,  where'er  thou  art, 
There  is  the  country  of  my  heart  I 
Yet  there  is  one,  who,  reft  of  me, 
Were  lonely  as  a  blasted  tree ; 
One,  who  still  hoped  my  hand  should  close 
His  eye  in  nature's  last  repose, 


198 


A  TALE  OF  THE  SEORET  TRIBUNAL. 


Eve  gathers  round  him — on  his  brow 

Already  rests  the  wintry  snow  ; 

His  form  is  bent,  his  features  wsar 

The  deepening  lines  of  age  and  care ; 

His  faded  eye  hath  lost  its  fire  ; 

Thou  wouldst  not  tear  me  from  my  sire  ! 

Yet  tell  me  all — thy  woes  impart, 

My  Ulric  I  to  a  faithful  heart, 

Which  sooner  far — oh  !  doubt  not  this — 

Would  share  thy  pangs  than  others'  bliss." 

"Ella,  what  wouldst  thou? — 'tis  a  tale 
Will  make  that  cheek  as  marble  pale  1 
Yet  what  avails  it  to  conceal 
All  thou  too  soon  must  know  and  feel  ? 
It  must,  it  must  be  told  ;  prepare, 
And  nerve  that  gentle  heart  to  bear. 
But  I — oh,  was  it  then  for  me 
The  herald  of  thy  woes  to  be — 
Thy  soul  s  bright  calmness  to  destroy, 
And  wake  thee  first  from  dreams  of  joy  ? 
Forgive  1  I  would  not  ruder  tone 
Should  make  the  fearful  tidings  known — 
I  would  not  that  unpitying  eyes 
Should  coldly  watch  thine  agonies. 
Better  'twere  mine — that  task  severe, 
To  cloud  thy  breast  with  grief  and  fear. 
— Hast  thou  not  heard,  in  legends  old, 
Wild  tales  that  turn  the  life-blood  cold, 
Of  those  who  meet  in  cave  or  glen, 
Far  from  the  busy  walks  of  men  ; 
Those  who  mysterious  vigils  keep, 
When  earth  is  wrapped  in  shades  and  sleep, 
To  judge  of  crimes,  like  Him  on  high, 
In  stillness  and  in  secrecy — 
The  unknown  avengers,  whose  decree 
'Tis  fruitless  to  resist  or  flee — 
Whose  name  hath  cast  a  spell  of  power 
O'er  peasant's  cot  and  chieftain's  tower? 
Thy  sire— 9  Ella  !  hope  is  fled  ! 
Think  of  him,  mourn  him,  as  the  dead  ! 
Their  sentence,  theirs  hath  sealed  his  doom, 
And  thou  may'st  weep  as  o'er  the  tomb. 
Yes,  weep  ! — relieve  thy  heart  oppressed, 
Pour  forth  thy  sorrows  on  my  breast. 
Thy  cheek  is  cold — thy  tearless  eye 
Seems  fixed  in  frozen  vacancy. 
Oh,  gaze  not  thus  1 — thy  silence  break  : 
Speak  I  if  'tis  but  in  anguish,  speak  !" 

She  spoke  at  length,  in  accents  low, 
Of  wild  and  half-indignant  woe  : — 
' '  He  doomed  to  perish  I  he  decreed 
By  their  avenging  aim  to  bleed  i 
He,  the  renowned  in  holy  fight,      [might ! 
The    Paynim's    scourge,    the    Christian's 
Ulric  !  what  mean'st  thou  ?   Mot  a  thought 
Of  that  high  mmd  witb  guilt  is  fraught  t 


Say  for  which  glorious  trophy  won. 
Which  deed  of  martial  prowess  done, 
Which  battlefield  in  days  gone  by 
Gained  by  his  valour,  must  he  die  ? 
Away  !  'tis  not  his  lofty  name 
Their  sentence  hath  consigned  to  shame  : 
Tis  not  his  life  they  seek.     Recall 
Thv  words,  or  say  he  shall  not  fall !" 

Then  sprang  forth  tears,  whose  blest  reliei 
Gave  pleading  softness  to  her  grief : 
' '  And  wilt  thou  not,  by  all  the  ties 
Of  our  affianced  love,"  she  cries— 
"  By  all  my  soul  hath  fixed  on  thee, 
Of  cherished  hope  for  years  to  be, 
Wilt  thou  not  aid  him.?    Wilt  not  thou 
Shield  his  grey  head  from  danger  now  ? 
And  didst  thou  not  in  childhood's  morn, 
That  saw  our  young  affections  bora, 
Hang  round  his  neck  and  climb  his  knee, 
Sharing  his  parent  smile  #ith  me  ? 
Kind,  gentle  Ulric  !  best  beloved  ! 
Now  be  thy  faith  in  danger  proved  I 
Though    snares   and   terrors  round   him 

wait, 

Thou  wilt  not  leave  him  to  his  fate. 
Turn  not  away  in  cold  disdain — 
Shall  thine  own  Ella  plead  in  vain  ? 
How  ar{  thou  changed  I  and  must  I  bear 
That  frown,  that  stern  averted  air  ? 
What  mean  they?" 

"  Maiden,  need'st  thou  ask  ? 
These  features  wear  no  specious  mask. 
Doth  sorrow  mark  this  brow  and  eye 
With  characters  of  mystery  ? 
This — this  is  anguish  I    Can  it  be  ? 
And  plead'st  thou  for  thy  sire  to  me  t 
Know,  though  thy  prayers  a  death-pang 

give, 

He  must  not  meet  my  sight — and  live  I 
Well  may'st  thou  shudder  !    Of  the  band 
Who  watch  in  secret  o'er  the  land, 
Whose  thousand  swords  'tis  vain  to  shun, 
The  unknown,   the  unslumbering — I   am 

one  ! 

My  arm  defend  him  I    What  were  then 
Each  vow  that  binds  the  souls  of  men, 
Sworn  ou  the  cross,  and  deeply  sealed 
By  rites  that  may  not  be  revealed  ?. 
A  breeze's  breath,  an  echo's  tone, 
A  passing  s_ound,  forgot  when  gone. 
— Nay,  .shrink  not  .from  me.     I  would  fly, 
That  he  by  other  hands  may  die. 
What !  think'st  thou  I  would  live  to  tract 
Abhorrence  in  that  angel  face  ? 
Beside  thee  should  the  lover  stand, 
The  father's  life-blood  on  bis  brand  ? 


A  TALE  OF  THE  SECRET  TRIBUNAL. 


No  1  I  have  bade  my  home  adieu, 
For  other  scenes  mine  eyes  must  view 
Look  on  me,  love  I     Now  all  is  knov/u. 
O  Ella  I  must  I  fly  alone?" 

{breath  ; 

But  she  was  changed.   Scarce  heaved  her 
She  stood  like  one  prepared  for  death, 
And  wept  no  more.     Then  casting  down 
From,  her  fair  brows  the  nuptial  crown, 
As  joy's  last  vision  from  her  heart. 
Cried,  with  sad  firmness,  "  We  must  part  I 
Tis  past !    These  bridal  flowers  so  frail, 
They  may  not  brook  one  stormy  gale, 
Survive — too  dear  as  still  thou  art — 
Each  hope  they  imaged  ; — we  must  part. 
One  struggle  yet,  and  all  is  o'er  : 
We  love — and  may  we  meet  no  more  I 
Oh  I  little  knowest  thou  of  the  power 
Affection  lends  in  danger's  hour, 
To  deem  that  fate  should  thus  divide 
My  footsteps  from  a  father's  side  I 
Speed  thou  to  other  shores  :  I  go 
To  share  his  wanderings  and  his  woe.       > 
Where'er  his  path  of  thorns  may  lead, 
Whate'er  his  doom  by  heaven  decreed. 
If  there  be  guardian  powers  above 
To  nerve  the  heart  of  filial  love, 
If  courage  may  be  won  by  prayer, 
Or  strength  by  duty — I  can  bear  I 
Farewell  I — though  in  that  sound  be  years 
Of  blighted  hopes  and  fruitless  tears, 
Though  the  soul  vibrate  to  its  knell 
Of  joys  departed — yet,  farewell  1" 

Was  this  the  maid  who  seemed,  erewhile, 
Born  but  to  meet  life's  vernal  smile  ? 
A  being  almost  on  the  wing, 
As  an  embodied  breeze  of  spring  ? 
A  child  of  beauty  and  of  bliss, 
Sent  from  some  purer  sphere  to  thia — 
Not,  in  her  exile,  to  sustain 
The  trial  of  one  earthly  pain  ; 
But  as  a  sunbeam  on  to  move, 
Wakening  all  hearts  to  joy  and  love  ? 
That  airy  form,  with  footsteps  free, 
And  radiant  glance — could  this  be  she  ? 
From  her  fair  cheek  the  rose  was  gone, 
Her  eyes'  bhie  sparkle  thence  had  flown  ; 
Of  all  its  vivid  glow  bereft. 
Each  playful  charm  her  lip  had  left. 
But  what  were  these  ?    On  that  young  face, 
Far  nobler  beauty  filled  their  place 
'Twas  not  the  pride  that  scorns  to  bend, 
Though  all  the  bolts  of  heaven  descend  : 
Not  the"  fierce  grandeur  of  despair, 
That  half  exults  its  fate  to  dare  ; 
Nor  that  wild  energy  which  leads 
Th*  enthusiast  to  fantastic  deeds  • 


Her  mien,  by  sorrow  unsubdued, 
Was  fixed  in  silent  fortitude ; 
Not  in  its  haughty  strength  elate. 
But  calmly,  mournfully  sedate. 
Twas  strange  yet  lovely  to  behold 
That  spirit  in  so  fair  a  mould, 
As  if  a  rose-tree's  tender  form, 
Unbent,  uubroke.  should  meet  the  storm. 
— One  look  she  cast  where  firmness  strove 
With  the  deep  pangs  of  parting  love  ; 
One  tear  a  moment  in  her  eye 
Dimmed  the  pure  light  of  constancy  ; 
And  pressing,  as  to  still,  her  heart, 
She  turned  in  silence  to  depart. 
But  Ulnc,  as  with  frenzy  wrought, 
Then  started  from  his  trance  of  thought. 

".Stay  thee  I  oh,  stay  !    It  must  not  be: 
All,  all  were  well  resigned  for  thee  ! 
Stay  !  till  my  soul  eacli  vow  disown, 
But  those  which  make  me  thine  alone. 
If  there  be  guilt — there  is  no  shrine 
More  holy  thart  that  heart  of  thine. 
There  be  my  crime  absolved  :  I  take 
The  cup  of  shame  for  thy  dear  sake. 
Oh  sfiamt.  — oh  no  !  to  virtue  true, 
Where  them  ait,  there  is  glory  too. 
Go  now  I  and  to  thy  sire  impart, 
He  hath  a  shield  in  Ulric's  heart, 
And  thou  a  home.     Remain,  or  flee, 
In  life,  in  death — I  follow  thee  1" 

"  There  shall  not  rest  one  cloud  of  shame, 
O  Ulric  !  on  thy  lofty  name  , 
There  shall  not  one  accusing  word 
Against  thy  spotless  faith  be  heard  I 
Thy  path  is  where  the  brave  rush  on, 
Thy  course  must  be  where  palms  are  won  : 
Where  banners  wave,  and  falchions  glare, 
Son  of  the  mighty  !  be  thou  there. 
Think  on  the  glorious  names  that  shine 
Along  thy  sire's  majestic  line  ; 
Oh,  last  of  that  illustrious  race  ! 
Thou  wert  not  born  to  meet  disgrace. 
Well,  well  I  know  each  grief,  each  pain, 
Thy  spirit  nobly  could  sustain  ; 
Even  I,  unshrinking,  see  them  near, 
And  what  hast  thou  to  do  with  fear? 
But  when  have  warriors  calmly  borne 
The  cold  and  bittei  smile  of  scorn  ? 
'Tis  not  for  thee  I  Thy  soul  hath  force 
To  cope  with  all  things — but  remorse  ; 
And  this  my  brightest  thought  shall  be, 
Thou  hast  not  braved  its  pangs  for  me. 
Go  I  break  thou  not  one  solemn  vow  ; 
Closed  be  the  fearful  conflict  now ; 
Go  I  but  forget  not  how  my  heart 
Still  at  thy  name  will  proudly  start, 


200 


When  chieftains  hear  and  minstrels  tell 
Thy  deeds  of  glory.     Fare  thee  well  I" 

And  thus  they  parted.    Why  recall 
The  scene  of  anguish  known  to  all  ? 
The  burst  of  tears,  the  blush  of  pride, 
That  fain  those  fruitless  tears  would  hide  ; 
The  lingering  look,  the  last  embrace. 
Oh  1  what  avails  it  to  retrace  ? 
They  parted — in  that  bitter  word 
A  thousand  tones  of  grief  are  heard, 
Whose  deeply-seated  echoes  n>st 
In  the  fair  cells  of  every  breast. 
Who  hath  not  known,  who  shall  not  know, 
That  keen  yet  most  familiar  woe  ? 
Where'er  affection's  home  is  found, 
It  meets  her  on  the  holy  ground  ; 
The  cloud  of  every  summer  hour, 
The  canker-worm  of  every  flower. 
Who  but  hath  proved,  or  yet  shall  prove, 
The  mortal  agony  of  love  ? 

The  autumn  moon  slept  bright  and  still 
On  fading  wood  and  purple  hill ; 
The  vintager  had  hushed  his  lay, 
The  fisher  shunned  the  blaze  of  day, 
And  silence  o'er  each  green  recess 
Brooded  in  misty  sultriness. 
But  soon  a  low  and  measured  sound 
Broke  on  the  deep  repose  around  ; 
From  Lindheim's  tower  a  glancing  oar 
Bade  the  stream  ripple  to  the  shore. 
Sweet  was  that  sound  of  waves  which  parted 
The  fond,  the  true,  the  noblerhearted  ; 
And  smoothly  seemed  the  bark  to  glide, 
And  brightly  flowed  the  reckless  tide, 
Though,  mingling  with  its  current,  fell 
The  last  warm  tears  of  love's  farewell. 


PART  SECOND. 


SWEET  is  the  gloom  of  forest  shades, 

Their  pillared  walks  and  dim  arcades, 

With  all  the  thousand  flowers  that  blow 

A  waste  of  loveliness,  below, 

To  him  whose  soul  the  world  would  fly 

For  nature's  lonely  majesty : 

To  bard,  when  wrapt  in  mighty  themes, 

To  lover,  lost  in  fairy  dreams, 

To  hermit,  whose  poetic  thought 

By  fits  a  gleam  of  heaven  hath  -caught, 

And  in  the  visions  of  his  rest 

Held  bright  communion  with  the  blest. 

'Tis  sweet  but  solemn  !    There  alike 

Silence  and  sound  with  awe  can  strike, 


The  deep  Eolian  murmur  made 
By  sighing  breeze  and  rustling  shade, 
And  caverned  fountain  gushing  nigh, 
And  wild-bees  plaintive  lullaby  : 
Or  the  dead  stillness  of  the  bowers, 
When  dark  the  summer  tempest  lours ; 
When  silent  nature  seems  to  wait 
The  gathering  thunder's  voice  of  fate ; 
When  the  aspen  scarcely  waves  in  air, 
And  the  clouds  collect  for-the  lightning's 

glare- 
Each,  each  alike  is  awful  there. 
And  thrills  the  soul  with  feelings  high 
As  some  majestic  harmony. 

But  she,  the  maid,  whose  footsteps  traced 
Each  green  retreat  in  breathless  haste — 
Young  Ella — lingered  not  to  hear 
The  wood-notes,  .lost  on  mourner's  ear. 
The  shivering  leaf,  the  breeze's  play, 
The  fountain's  gush,  the  wild-bird's  lay — 
These    charm    not    now.     Her    sire    she 
sought,  [thought, 

With    trembling     frame,     with     anxious 
And,  starting  if  a  forest  deer 
But  moved  the  rustling  branches  near, 
First  felt  that  innocence  may  fear. 
— She  reached  a  lone  and  shadowy  dell, 
Where  the  free  sunbeam  never  fell. 
'Twas  twilight  there  at  summer  noon, 
Deep  night  beneath  the  harvest  moon. 
And  scarce  might  one  bright  star  be  seen 
Gleaming  the  tangled  boughs  between  : 
For  many  a  giant  rock  around 
Dark  in  terrific  grandeur  frowned, 
And  the  ancient  oaks  that  waved  on  high, 
Shut  out  each  glimpse  of  the  blessed  sky. 
Then  the  cold  spring,  in  its  shadowy  cave, 
Ne'er  to  heaven's  beam  one  sparkle  gave. 
And  the  wild  flower  on  its  brink  that  grew 
Caught  not  from  day  one  glowing  hue. 
'Twas  said,  some  fearful  deed  untold 
Had  stained  that  scene  in  days  of  old  ; 
Tradition  o'er  the  haunt  had  thrown 
A  shade  yet  deeper  than  its  own ; 
And  still,  amidst  the  umbrageous  gloom, 
Perchance  above  some  victim's  tomb, 
O'ergrown  with  ivy  and  with  moss, 
There  stood  a  rudely  sculptured  Cross, 
Which,  haply  silent  record  bore, 
Of  guilt  and  penitence  of  yore. 

Who  by  that  holy  sign  was  kneeling, 
With  brow  unuttered  pangs  revealing, 
Hands  clasped  convulsively  in  prayer, 
And  lifted  eyes  and  streaming  hair. 
And  cheek  all  pale,  as  marble  mould, 
Seen  by  the  moonbeam's  radiance  cold? 


201 


Was  it  some  image  of  despair 

Still  fixed  that  stamp  of  woe  to  bear? 

— Oh !   ne'er  could  Ait  her  forms  have 

wrought 

To  speak  such  agonies  of  thought ! 
Those  deathlike  features  gave  to  view 
A  mortal's  pangs  too  deep  and  true. 
Starting  he  rose,  with  frenzied  eye, 
As  Ella's  hurried  step  drew  nigh  : 
He  turned,  with  aspect  darkly  wild, 
Trembling  he  stood — before  his  child ! 
On,  with  a  burst  of  tears  she  sprung, 
And  to  her  father's  bosom  clung. 

"Away!  what  seek'st  thou  here?"  he 

cried, 

"Art  thou  not  now  thine  Ulric's  bride? 
Hence,  leave  me — leave  me  to  await 
In  solitude  the  storm  of  Fate. 
Thou  know'st  not  what  my  doom  may  be, 
Ere  evening  comes  in  peace  to  thee." 

"My  father  1  shall  the  joyous  throng 
Swell  high  for  me  the  bridal  song  ? 
Shall  the  gay  nuptial  board  be  spread, 
The  festal  garland  bind  my  head, 
And  thou  in  grief,  in  peril,  roam, 
And  make  the  wilderness  thy  home  ? 
No  !  I  am  here  with  thee  to  share 
All  suffering  mortal  strength  may  bear. 
And,  oh  1  whate'er  thy  foes  decree, 
In  life,  in  death,  in  chains,  or  free — 
Well,  well  I  feel,  in  thee  secure ; 
Thy  heart  and  hand  alike  are  pure  1" 

Then  was  there  meaning  in  his  look, 
Which  deep  that  trusting  spirit  shook  ; 
So  wildly  did  each  glance  express 
The  strife  of  shame  and  bitterness, 
As  thus  he  spoke:    "Fond  dreams,   oh 

hence! 

Is  this  the  mien  of  Innocence  ? 
This  furrowed  brow,  this  restless  eye — • 
Read  thou  the  fearful  tale,  and  fly ) 
Is  it  enough  ?  or  must  I  seek . 
For  words,  the  tale  of  guilt  to  speak  ? 
Then  be  it  so — I  will  not  doom 
Thy  youth  to  wither  in  its  bloom ; 
I  will  not  see  thy  tender  frame 
Bowed  to  the  earth  with  fear  and  shame. 
No !  though  I  teach  thee  to  abhor 
The  sire  so  fondly  loved  before ; 
Though  the  dread  effort  rend  my  breast, 
Yet  shall  thou  leave  me  and  be  blest  !'• 
Oh  !  bitter  penance  I    Thou  wilt  turn 
Away  in  horror  and  in  scorn  ; 
Thy  looks,  that  still  through  all  the  past 
Affection's  gentlest  beams  have  casfj 


As  lightning  on  my  heart  shall  fall, 
And  I  must  mark  and  bear  it  all. 
Yet,  though  of  life's  best  ties  bereaved, 
Thou  shall  not,  must  not,  be  deceived. 

"  I  linger — let  me  speed  the  tale 
Ere  voice,  and  thought,  and  memory  fail. 
Why  should  I  falter  thus  to  tell 
What  Heaven  so  long  hath   known  too 

well? 

Yes !  though  from  mortal  sight  concealed, 
There  hath  a  brother's  blood  appealed  ! 
He  died — 'twas  not  where  banners  wave, 
And  war-steeds  trample  on  the  bnve ; 
He  died — it  was  in  Holy  Land — 
Yet  fell  he  not  by  Paynim  hand  ; 
He  sleeps  not  with  his  sires  at  rest, 
With  trophied  shield  and  knightly  crest ; 
Unknown  his  grave  to  kindred  eyes, — 
But  I  can  tell  thee  where  he  lies  t 
It  was  a  wild  and  savage  spot, 
But  once  beheld  and  ne'er  forgot ! 
I  see  it  now  I    That  haunted  scene 
My  spirit's  dwelling  still  hath  been. 
And  he  is  there — I  see  him  laid 
Beneath  that  palm-tree's  lonely  shade. 
The  fountain-wave  that  sparkles  nigh 
Bears  witness  with  its  crimson  dye. 
I  see  th'  accusing  glance  he  raised, 
Ere  that  dim  eye  by  death  was  glazed; 
Ne'er  will  that  parting  look  forgive  1 
I  still  behold  it— and  I  live  1 
I  live !  from  hope,  from  mercy  driven, 
A  mark  for  all  the  shafts  of  Heaven ! 

"Yet  had  I  wrongs.     By  fraud  he  won 
My  birthright ;  and  my  child,  my  son, 
Heir  to  high  name,  high  fortune  born, 
Was  doomed  tq  penury  and  scorn, 
An  alien  'midst  his  father's  halls, 
An  exile  from  his  native  walls. 
Could  I  bear  this  ?  the  rankling  thought, 
Deep,  dark  within  my  bosom  wrought. 
Some  serpent  kindling  hate  and  guile, 
Lurked  in  my  infant's  rosy  smile, 
And  when  his  accents  lisped  my  name, 
They  woke  my  inmost  heart  to  flame  1 
I  struggled — are  there  evil  powers 
That  claim  their  own  ascendant  hours  ? 
— Oh  1  what  should  thine  unspotted  sout 
Or  know  or  fear  of  their  control  ? 
Why  on  the  fearful  conflict  dwell  ? 
Vainly  I  struggled,  and  I  fell—: 
Cast  down  from  every  hope  of  b/iss — 
Too  well  thou  know  st  to  what  abyss  ! 

"  'Twas  done  i — that  moment  hurried  by, 
To  darken  ajl  eternity. 


202 


A  TALE  OF  THE  SECRET  TRIBUNAL. 


Vears  rolled  away,  long  evil  years, 

Of  woes,  of  fetters,  and  of  fears  ; 

Nor  aught  hut  vain  remorse  I  gained 

By  the  deep  guilt  my  soul  which  stained, 

For,  long  a  captive  in  the  lands 

Where  Arabs  tread  their  burning  sands, 

The  haunted  midnight  of  the  mind 

Was  round  me  while  ir^hains  I  pined, 

By  all  forgotten,  save  by  one 

Dread  presence — which  I  could  not  shun. 

— How  oft,  when  o'er  the  silent  waste 

Nor  path  nor  landmark  might  be  traced, 

When  slumbering  by  the  watch-fire's  ray 

The  Wanderers  of  the  Desert  lay, 

And  stars  as  o'er  an  ocean  shone, 

Vigil  I  kept — but  not  alone  ! 

Tjhat  form,  that  image  from  the  dead, 

Still  walked  the  wild  with  soundless  tread  ! 

I've  seen  it  in  the  fiery  blast, 

I've  seen  it  when  the  sand-storms  passed  ; 

Beside  the  Desert's  fount  it  stood, 

Tinging  the  clear  cold  wave  with  blood  I 

And  even  when  viewless,  by  the  fear 

Curdling  my  veins,  I  knew  'twas  near. 

—  Was  near  I  I  feel  the  unearthly  thrill. 

Its  power  is  on  my  spirit  still : 

A  mystic  influence,  undefined, 

The  spell,  the  shadow  of  my  mind  ! 

"  Wilt  thou  yet  linger  ?  Time  speeds  on  ; 
One  last  farewell,  and  then  begone  I 
Unclasp  the  hands  that  shade  thy  brow, 
And  let  me  read  thine  aspect  now  I   • 
No  !  stay  thee  yet,  and  learn  the  meed 
Heaven's  justice  to  my  crime  decreed. 
Slow  came  the  day  that  broke  my  chain. 
But  I  at  large  was  free  again  ; 
And  freedom  brings  a  burst  of  joy, 
Even  guilt  itself  can  scares  destroy. 
I  thought  upon  my  own  fair  towers, 
My  native  Rhine's  gay  vineyard  bowers, 
And  in  a  father's  visions  pressed 
Thee  and  thy  brother  to  my  breast. 

11  Twas  but  in  visions.     Canst  thou  yet 
Recall  the  moment  when  we  met  ? 
Thy  step  to  greet  me  lightly  sprung, 
Thy  arms  around  me  fondly  clung  ; 
Scarce  aught  than  infant  seraph  less 
Seemed  thy  poor  childhood's  loveliness. 
But  he  was  gone — that  son  for  whom 
I  rushed  on  guilt's  eternal  doom  ; 
He  for  whose  sake  alone  were  given 
My  peace  on  earth — my  hope  in  heaven — 
He  met  me  riot.  .  A  ruthless  band 
Whose  name  with  terror  filled  the  land, 
Fierce  outlaws  of  the  wood  and  wild, 
Had  reft  the  father  of  his  child. 


Foes  to  my  race,  the  hate  they  nursed 
Full  on  that  cherished  scion  burst. 
Unknown  his  fate. — No  parent  nigh, 
My  boy  !  my  first-born—didst  thou  die  ? 
Or  did  they  spare  thee  for  a  life 
Of  shame,  of  rapine,  and  of  strife? 
Livest  thou  unfriended,  unallied, 
A  wanderer  lost,  without  a  guide? 
Oh  I  to  thy  fate's  mysterious  gloom 
Blest  were  the  darkness  of  the  tomb  I 

"  Ella  I  'tis  done.     My  guilty  heart 
Before  thee  all  unveiled — depart  I 
Few  pangs  'twill  cost  thee  now  to  fly 
From  one  so  stained — so  lost  as  I. 
Yet  peace  to  thine  untainted  breast, 
Even  though  it  hate  me— be  thou  blest  1 
Farewell !    thou  shall  not  linger  here — 
Even  now  the  avenger  may  be  near. 
Where'er  I  turn,  the  foe,  the  snare, 
The  dagger  may  be  ambushed  there  ^ 
One  hour — and  haply  all  is  o'er, 
And  we  must  meet  on  earth  no  more. 
No,  nor  beyond  ! — to  those  pure  skies 
Where  thou  shall  be,  I  may  not  rise. 
Heaven's  will  for  ever  parts  our  lot, 
Yet,  O  my  child  1  abhor  me  not ! 
Speak  once,  to  soothe  this  broken  heart- 
Speak  to  me  once  1  and  then  depart." 

But  still — as  if  each  pulse  were  dead, 
Mute — as  the  power  of  speech  were  fled, 
Pale — as  if  life-blood  ceased  to  warm 
The  marble  beauty  of  her  form  ; 
On  the  dark  rocks  she  leaned  her  head. 
That  seemed  as  there  'twere  riveted, 
And  dropped  the  hands,   till  then  which 

pressed 

Her  burning  brow  or  throbbing  breast. 
There  beamed  no  tear-drop  in  her  eye, 
And  from  her  lip  there  breathed  no  sigh, 
And  on  her  brow  no  trace  there  dwelt 
That  told  she  suffered  or  she  felt. 
All  that  once  glowed,  or  smiled,  or  beamed, 
Nowfixed.andquenched.andfrozenseemed; 
And  long  her  sire,  in  wild  dismay, 
Deemed  her  pure  spirit  passed  away. 

But  life  returned.    O'er  that  cold  frame 
One  deep  convulsive  shudder  came ; 
And  a  faint  light  her  eye  relumed, 
And  sad  resolve  her  mien  assumed, 
But  there  was  horror  in  the  gaze, 
Which  yet  to  his  she  dared  not  raise  ; 
And  her  sad  accents,  wild  and  low, 
As  rising  from  a  depth  of  woe. 
At  first  with  hurried  trembling  broke, 
But  Rathered  firmness  as  she  spoke. 


A  TALE  OF  THE  SECRET  TRIBUNAL. 


203 


"  I  leave  thee«ot — whate'er  betide, 
My  footsteps  shall  not  quit  thy  side  ; 
Pangs  keen  as  death  my  soul  may  thrill, 
But  yet  thou  art  my  father  still ! 
And,  oh  !  if  stained  by  guilty  deed, 
For  some  kind  spirit  tenfold  need, 
To  speak  of  Heaven's  absolving  love, 
And  waft  desponding  thought  above. 
Is  there  not  power  in  mercy's  wave 
The  blood^ain  from  thy  soul  to  lave? 
Is  there  not  balm  to  heal  despair, 
In  tears,  in  penitence,  and  prayer  ? 
My  father !  kneel  at  His  pure  shrine, 
Who  died  to  expiate  guilt  like  thine  ; 
Weep — and  my  tears  with  thine  shall  blend, 
Pray — while  my  prayers  with  thine  ascend, 
And,  as  our  mingling  sorrows  rise, 
Heaven  will  relent,  though  earth  despise !" 

"  My  child,  mychild,  these  bursting  tears, 
The  first  my  eyes  have  shed  .for  years, 
Though  deepest  conflicts  they  express, 
Yet  flow  not  all  in  bitterness. 
Oh  !  thou  hast  bid  a  withered  heart 
From  desolation's  slumber  start ; 
Thy  voice  of  pity  and  of  love, 
Seems  o  er  its  icy  depths  to  move 
Even  as  a  breeze  of  health,  which  brings 
Life,  hope,  and  healing  on  its  wings. 
And  there  is  mercy  ye.t — I  feel 
Its  influence  o'er  my  spirit  steal ; 
How  welcome  were  each  pang  below, 
If  guilt  might  be  atoned  by  woe. 
Think'st  thou  I  yet  may  be  forgiven? 
Shall  prayers  unclose  the  gate  of  heaven  ? 
Oh  !  if  it  yet  avail  to  plead, 
If  judgment  be  not  yet  decreed, 
Our  hearts  shall  blend  their  suppliant  cry, 
Till  pardon  shall  be  sealed  on  high. 
Yet  still  I  shrink  ? — Will  mercy  shed 
Her  dews  upon  this  fallen  head? 
—Kneel,  Ella,  kneel  1  till  foil  and  free,  . 
Descend  forgiveness,  won  by  thee." 

They  knelt — before  the  Cross,  that  sign 
Of  love  eternal  and  divine ; 
That  symbol,  which  so  long  hath  stood 
A  rock  of  strength  on  time's  dark  flood, 
Clasped  by  despairing  hands,  and  laved 
By  the  warm  tears  of  nations  saved. 
In  one  deep  prayer  their  spirits  blent, 
The  guilty  and  the  innocent. 
Youth,  pure  as  if  from  heaven  its  birth, 
Age,  soiled  with  every  stain  of  earth, 
Knelt,  offering  up  one  heart,  one  cry, 
One  sacrifice  of  agony. 
Oh  !  blest,  though  bitter  be  their  source — 
Though  dark  the  fountain  of  remorse, 


Blest  are  the  tears  which  pour  from  thence, 
The  atoning  stream  of  penitence. 
And  let  not  pity  check  the  tide 
By  which  the  heart  is  purified ; 
Let  not  vain  comfort  turn  its  course. 
Or  timid  love  repress  its  force. 
Go  !  bind  the  flood,  whose  waves  expand 
To  bear  luxuriance  o'er  the  land ; 
Forbid  the  life-restoring  rains 
To  fall  on  Afric's  burning  plains ; 
Close  up  the  fount  that  gushed  to  cheer 
The  pilgrim  o'er  the  waste  who  trode , 
But  check  thou  not  one  holy  tear 
Which  penitence  devotes  to  God. 

II. 

THROUGH  scenes  so  lone  the  wild-deer  ne'ei 
Was  roused  by  huntsman's  bugle  there — 
So  rude  that  scarce  might  human  eye 
Sustain  their  dread  sublimity — 
So  awful  that  the  timid  swain, 
Nurtured  amidst  their  dark  domain, 
Had  peopled  with  unearthly  forms 
Their  mists,  their  forests,  and  their  storms,— 
She,  whose  blue  eye  of  laughing  light 
Once  made  each  festal  scene  more  bright ; 
Whose  voice  in  song  of  joy  was  sweetest, 
Whose  step  in  dance  of  mirth  was  fleetest, 
By  torrent-wave  and  mountain-brow 
Is  wandering  as  an  outcast  now, 
To  share  with  Lindheim's  fallen  chief 
His  shame,  his  terror,  and  his  grief. 

Hast  thou  not  marked  the  ruin's  flower. 
That  blooms  in  solitary  grace, 
And,  faithful  to  its  mouldering  tower, 
Waves  in  the  banner's  place?         [passed, 
From    those   grey   haunts    renown    hath 
Time  wins  his  heritage  at  last ; 
The  day  of  glory  hath  gone  by, 
With  all  its  pomp  and  minstrelsy ; 
Yet  still  the  flower  of  golden  hues 
There  loves  its  fragrance  to  diffuse, 
To  fallen  and  forsaken  things 
With  constancy  unaltered  clings, 
And  smiling  o'er  the  wreck  of  state, 
With  beauty  clothes  the  desolate. 
— Even  such  was  she,  the  fair-haired  maid, 
In  all  her  light  of  youth  arrayed, 
Forsaking  every  joy  below 
To  Soothe  a  guilty  parent's  woe, 
And  clinging  thus,  in  beauty's  prime, 
To  the  dark  ruin  made  by  crime. 
Oh  !  ne'er  did  Heaven's  propitious  eyes 
Smile  on  a  purer  sacrifice  ; 
Ne'er  did  young  love  at  duty's  shrine, 
More  nobfy  brightest  hopes  resign  I 


204 


A  TALE  OF  THE  SECRET  TRIBUNAL. 


O'er  her  own  paiigs  she  brooded  not, 
Nor  sank  beneath  her  bitter  lot ; 
No !  that  pure  spirit's  lofty  worth 
Still  rose  more  buoyantly  from  earth, 
And  drew  from  an  eternal  source 
Its  gentle,  yet  triumphant  force  ; 
Roused  by  affliction's  chastening  might 
To  energies  more  calmly  bright, 
Like  the  wild  harp  of  airy  sigh 
Woke  by  'the  storm  to  harmony. 

He  that  in  mountain-holds  hath  sought 
A  refuge  for  unconquered  thought, 
A  chartered  home,  where  freedom's  child 
Might  rear  her  altars  in  the  wild, 
And  fix  her  quenchless  torch  on  high, 
A  beacon  for  eternity ; 
Or  they,  whose  master-spirits  wage 
Proud  war  with  Persecution's  rage, 
And  to  the  deserts  bear  the  faith 
That  bids  them  smile  on  chains  and  death ; 
Well  may  they  draw,  from  all  around, 
Of  grandeur  clothed  in  form  or  sound, 
From  the  deep  power  of  earth  and  sky, 
Wild  nature's  might  of  majesty, 
Strong  energies,  immortal  fires, 
High  hopes,  magnificent  desires  1 
But  dark,  terrific,  and  austere, 
To  him  doth  Nature's  mien  appear, 
Who  'midst  her  wilds  would  seek  repose 
From  guilty  pangs  and  vengeful  foes  ! 
For  him  the  wind  hath  music  dread, 
A  dirge-like  voice  that  mourns  the  dead  \ 
The  forest's  whisper  breathes  a  tone 
Appalling,  as  from  worlds  unknown  ; 
The  mystic  gloom  of  wood  and  cave 
Is  filled  with  shadows  of  the  grave ; 
In  noon's  deep  calm  the  sunbeams  dart 
A  blaze  that  seems  to  search  his  heart  ; 
The  pure  eternal  stars  of  night 
Upbraid  him  with  their  silent  light ; 
And  the  dread  spirit,  which  pervades 
And  hallows  earth's  most  lonely  shades, 
In  every  scene,  in  every  hour, 
Surrounds  him  with  chastising  power — 
With  nameless  fear  his  soul  to  thrill, 
Heard,  felt,  acknowledged,  present  still  1 

'Twas  the  chilly  close  of  an  autumn  day, 
And  the  leaves  fell  thick  o'er  the  wanderers' 

way; 

The  rustling  pines  with  a  hollow  sound 
Foretold  the  tempest  gathering  round  ; 
And  the  skirts  of  the  western  clouds  were 

spread 

With  a  tinge  of  wild  and  stormy  red, 
That  seemed,  through  the  twilight  forest- 
bowers, 
Uke  the  glare  of  a  city's  blaziug  towers. 


But  they  who  far  from  cities  fled, 
And  shrank  from  the  print  of  human  tread- 
Had  reached  a  desert  scene  unknown, 
So  strangely  wild,  so  deeply  lone, 
That  a  nameless  feeling,  unconfessed 
And  undefined,  their  soub  oppressed. 
Rocks  piled  on  rocks,  around  them  hurled, 
Lay  like  the  ruins  of  a  world, 
Left  by  an  earthquake's  final  throes 
In  deep  and  desolate  repose — 
Things  of  eternity  whose  forms 
Bore  record  of  ten  thousand  storms  I 
While  rearing  its  colossal  crest 
In  sullen  grandeur  o'er  the  rest, 
One,  like  a  pillar,  vast  and  rude, 
Stood  mouaich  of  the  solitude. 
Perchance  by  Roman  conqueror's  hand 
The  enduring  monument  was  planned  ; 
Or  Odin's  sons,  in  days  gone  by, 
Had  shaped  its  rough  immensity, 
To  rear,  'midst  mountain,  rock,  and  wood, 
A  temple  meet.for  rites  of  blood. 
But  they  were  gone  who  might  have  told 
That  secret  of  the  times  of  old  ; 
And  there  in  silent  scorn  it  frowned 
O'er  all  its  vast  coevals  round. 
Darkly  those  giant  masses  loured, 
Countless  and  motionless  they  towered  ; 
No  wild-flower  o  er  their  summits  hung, 
No  fountain  from  their  caverns  sprung  ; 
Yet  ever  on  the  wanderer's  ear 
Murmured  a  sound  of  waters  near. 
With  music  deep  of  lulling  falls, 
And  louder  gush  at  intervals. 
Unknown  its  source — nor  spring  nor  stream 
Caught  the  red  sunset's  lingering  gleam  ; 
But  ceaseless,  from  its  hidden  caves, 
Arose  that  mystic  voice  of  waves. 
Yet,  bosomed  'midst  that  savage  scene, 
One  chosen  spot  of  gentler  mien 
Gave  promise  to  the  pilgrim's  eye 
Of  shelter  from  the  tempest  nigh. 
Glad  sight !  the  ivied  Cross  it  bore, 
The  sculptured  saint  that  crowned  its  door. 
Less  welcome  now  were  monarch's  dome 
Than  that  low  cell,  some  hermit's  home. 


Thither  the  outcasts  bent  their  way, 
By  the  last  lingering  gleam  of  day  ; 
When  from  a  cavemed  rock,  which  cast 
Deep  shadows  o'er  them  as  they  past, 
A  form,  a  warrior  form  of  might, 
As  from  earth's  bosom,  sprang  to  sight. 
His  port  was  lofty — yet  the  heart 
Shrank  from  him  with  recoiling  start ; 
His  mien  was  youthful — yet  his  face 
Had  naught  of  youth's  ingenuous  grace ; 


A  TALE  OF  TEE  SECRET  TRIBUNAL. 


205 


Nor  chivalrous  nor  tender  thought 
Its  traces  on  his  brow  had  wrought.  . 
Yet  dwelt  no  fierceness  in  his  eye, 
But  calm  and  cold  severity, 
A  spirit  haughtily  austere, 
Stranger  to  pity  as  to  fear. 
It  seemed  as  pride  had  thrown  a  veil 
O'er  that  dark  brow  and  visage  pale, 
Leaving  the  searcher  naught  to  guess, 
All  was  so  fixed  and  passionless. 

He  spoke — and  they  who  heard  the  tone 
Felt,  deeply  felt,  all  hope  was  flown. 
"  I've  sought  thee  far  in  forest-bowers, 
I've  sought  thee  long  in  peopled  towers, 
I've  borne  the  dagger  of  the  UNKNOWN 
Through  scenes  explored  by  me  alone ; 
My  search  is  closed — nor  toils  nor  fears 
Repel  the  servants  of  the  Seers. 
We  meet —  tis  vain  to  strive  or  fly  : 
Albert  of  Lindheim,  thou  must  die  !" 
Then  with  clasped  hands  the  fair-haired 

maid 

Sank  at  his  feet,  and  wildly  prayed  : — 
"  Stay,  stay  thee  !  sheath  that  lifted  steel  1 
Oh  I  thou  art  human,  and  canst  feel  1 
Hear  me  !  -if  e'er  'twas  thine  to  prove , 
The  blessing  of  a  parent's  love  ; 
By  thine  own  father's  hoary  hair, 
By  her  who  gave  thee  being,  spare  I  ' 
Did  they  not,  o'er  thy  infant  years, 
Keep  watch  in  sleepless  hopes  and  fears  ? 
Young  warrior  1  thou  wilt  hear  my  prayers, 
As  thou  wouldst  hope  for  grace  to  theirs  I" 

But  cold  the  Avenger's  look  remained, 
His  brow  its  rigid  calm  maintained  : 
"  Maiden  I  'tis  vain — my  bosom  ne'er 
Was  conscious  of  a  parent's  care  ; 
The  nurture  of  my  infant  years 
Froze  in  my  soul  the  source  of  tears  ; 
'Tis  not  for  me  to  pause  or  melt, 
Or  feel  as  happier  hearts  have  felt.    . 
Away  I  the  hour  of-fate  goes  by  1 
Thy  prayers  are  fruitless — he  must  die  I" 

"  Rise,  Ella  !  rise!"  with  steadfast  brow 
The  father  spoke — unshrinking  now, 
As  if  from  Heaven  a  martyr's  strength 
Had  settled  on  his  soul  at  length  : 
"  Kneel  thou  no  more,  my  noble  child  ! 
Thou  by  no  taint  of  guilt  defiled  ; 
Kneel  not  to  man  ! — for  mortal  prayer, 
Oh  t  when  did  mortal  vengeance  spars  ? 
Since  hope  of  earthly  aid  is  flown, 
Lift  thy  pure  hands  to  Heaven  alone. 
And  know,  to  calm  thy  suffering  heart, 
My  spirit  is  rec-igned  to  part, 


Trusting  in  Him  who  reads  and  knows 
This  guilty  breast,  with  all  its  woes. 
Rise  I  I  would  bless  thee  once  again, 
Be  still,  be  firm — for  all  is  vain  1" 

And  she  was  still.     She  heard  him  not— 
Herprayers  were  hushed,  her  pangs  forgot ; 
All  thought,  all  memory,  passed  away, 
Silent  and  motionless  she  lay, 
In  a  brief  death,  a  blest  suspense 
Alike  of  agony  and  sense. 
She  saw  not  when  the  dagger  gleamed 
In  the  last  red  light  from  the  west  that 

streamed ; 

She  marked  not  when  the  life-blood's  flow 
Came  rushing  to  the  mortal  blow  ; 
While,  unresisting,  sank  her  sire, 
Yet  gathered  firmness  to  expire, 
Mingling  a  warrior's  courage  high 
With  a  penitent's  humility. 
And  o'er  him  there  the  Avenger  stood, 
And  watched  the  victim's  ebbing  blood, 
Still  calm,  as  if  his  faithful  hand 
Had  but  obeyed  some  just  command, 
Some  power  whose  stem  yet  righteous  will 
He  deemed  it  virtue  to  fulfil, 
And  triumphed  when  the  palm  was  won, 
For  duty's  task  austerely  done. 

But  a  feeling  dread  and  undefined, 
A  mystic  presage  of  the  mind, 
With  strange  and  sudden  impulse  ran 
Chill  through  the  heart  of  the  dying  man  , 
And  his  thoughts  found  voice,  and  his  bosom 

breath, 

And  it  seemed  as  fear  suspended  death, 
And  nature  from  her  terrors  drew 
Fresh  energy  and  vigour  new. 
— "  Thou  saidst  thy  lonely  bosom  ne'er 
'Was  conscious  of  a  parent's  care  ; 
Thou  saidst  thy  lot,  in  childhood's  years, 
Froze  in  thy  soul  the  source  of  tears  : 
The  time  will  come,  when  thou,  with  me, 
The  judgment  throne  of  God  will  see — 
Oh  !  by  thy  hopes  of  mercy,  then, 
By  His  blest  love  who  died  for  men, 
By  each  dread  rite,  and  shrine,  and  vow, 
Avenger  I  I  adjure  thee  now  I 
To  him  who  bleeds  beneath  thy  steel, 
Thy  lineage  and  thy  name  reveaL 
And  haste  thee  t  for  his  closing  ear 
Hath  little  more  on  earth  to  hear— 
Haste  I  for  the  spirit,  almost  flown. 
Is  lingering  for  thy  words  alone." 

Then  first  a  shade,  resembling  fear, 
Passed  o'er  th'  Avenger's  mien  austere ; 


206 


A  TALE  OF  THE  SECRET  TRIBUNAL. 


A  nameless  awe  his  features  crossed. 
Soon  in  their  haughty  coldness  lost. 
— "  What  wouldst  thou  ?  Ask  the  rock  and 

wild, 

And  bid  them  tell  thee  of  their  child  I 
Ask  the  rude  winds,  and  angry  skies, 
Whose  tempests  were  his  lullabies  I 
His  chambers  were  the  cave  and  wood, 
His  fosterers  men  of  wrath  and  blood  ; 
Outcasts  alike  of  earth  and  heaven, 
By  wrongs  to  desperation  driven. 
Who,  in  their  pupil,  now  could  trace 
The  features  of  a  nobler  race  ? 
Yet  such  was  mine  ! — if  one  who  cast 
A  look  of  anguish  o'er  the  past, 
Bore  faithful  record  on  the  day 
When  penitent  in  death  he  lay. 
But  still  deep  shades  my  prospects  veil ; 
He  died— and  told  but  half  the  tale. 
With  him  it  sleeps — I  only  know 
Enough  for  stern  and  silent  woe, 
For  vain  ambition's  deep  regret, 
For  hopes  deceived,  deceiving  yet. 
For  dreams  of  pride,  that  vainly  tell 
How  high  a  lot  had  suited  well 
The  heir  of  some  illustrious  line, 
Heroes  and  chieftains  of  the  Rhine !" 

Then  swift  through  Albert's  bosom  passed 
One  pang,  the  keenest  and  the  last, 
Ere  with  his  spirit  fled  the  fears, 
The  sorrows,  and  the  pangs  of  years  ; 
And,  while  his  grey  hairs  swept  the  dust, 
Faltering  he  murmured,  "  Heaven  is  just  1 
For  thee  that  deed  of  guilt  was  done, 
By  thee  avenged,  my  son!  my  son  1" 

The   day  was  closed— the    moonbeam 

shed 

Light  on  the  living  and  the  dead  ; 
And  as  through  rolling  clouds  it  broke, 
Young  Ella  from  her  trance  awoke — 
Awoke  to  bear,  to  feel,  to  know 
Even  more  than  all  an  orphan's  woe. 
Oh  !  ne'er  did  moonbeam's  light  serene  I 
With  beauty  clothe  a  sadder  scene  I 
There,  cold  in  death,  the  father  slept — 
There,  pale  in  woe,  the  daughter  wept  [ 
Yes  !  she  might  weep — but  one  stood  nigh, 
With  horror  in  his  tearless  eye, 
That  eye  which  ne  er  again  shall  close 
In  the  deep  quiet  of  repose  : 
No  more  on  earth  beholding  aught 
Save  ona  dread  vision,  stamped  on  thought. 
But,  lost  in  grief,  the  Orphan  Maid 
His  deeper  woe  had  scarce  surveyed, 
Till  his  wild  voice  revealed  a  tale 
Which  seemed  to  bid  the  heavens  turn  pale ! 


He  called  her,  "  Sister !"  and  the  word 
In  anguish  breathed,  in  terror  heard, 
Revealed  enough  ;  all  else  were  weak — 
That  sound  a  thousand  pangs  could  speal; 
He  knelt  beside  that  breathless  clay, 
Which  fixed  in  utter  stillness  lay — 
Knelt,  till  his  soul  imbibed  each  trace, 
Each  line  of  that  unconscious  face ; 
Knelt,  till  his  eye  could  bear  no  more 
Those  marble  features  to  explore ; 
Then,  starting,  turning,  as  to  shun 
The  image  thus  by  Memory  won, 
A  wild  farewell  to  her  he  bade, 
Who  by  the  dead  in  silence  prayed ; 
And,  frenzied  by  his  bitter  doom, 
Fled  thence — to  find  all  earth  a  tomb ! 

in. 

DAYS  passed  away — and  Rhine's  fair  shore 
In  the  light  of  summer  smiled  once  more ; 
The  vines  were  purpling  on  the  hill, 
And  the  corn-fields  waved  in  the  sunshine 

still. 

There  came  a  bark  up  the  noble  stream, 
With  pennons  that  shed  a  golden  gleam, 
With  the  flash  of  arms  and  the  voice  of  song, 
Gliding  triumphantly  along  ; 
For  warrior-forms  were  glittering  there, 
Whose  plumes  waved  light  in  the  whisper- 
ing air ; 

And  as  the  tones  of  oar  and  wave 
Their  measured  cadence  mingling  gave, 
'Twas  thus  the  exulting  chorus  rose, 
While  many  an  echo  swelled  the  close  : — 

"  From  the  fields  where  dead  and  dying 
On  their  battle-bier  are  lying, 
Where  the  blood  unstanched  is  gushing, 
Where  the  steed  unchecked  is  rushing, 
Trampling  o'er  the  noble-hearted, 
Ere  the  spirit  yet  be  parted  ; 
Where  each  breath  of  heaven  is  swaying 
Knightly  plumes  and  banners  playing, 
And  the  clarion's  music  swelling 
Calls  the  vulture  from  his  dwelling  ; 
He  comes  with  trophies  worthy  of  his  line, 
The  son  of  heroes,  Ulric  of  the  Rhine  1 
To  his  own  fair  woods,  enclosing 
Vales  in  sunny  peace  reposing, 
Where  his  native  stream  is  laving 
Banks,  with  golden  harvests  waving, 
And  the  summer  light  is  sleeping 
On  the  grape,  through  tendrils  peeping ; 
To  the  halls,  where  harps  are  ringing, 
Bards  the  praise  of  warriors  singing, 
Graceful  footsteps  bounding  fleetly. 
Joyous  voices  mingling  sweetly ; 


A  TALE  OF  THE  SECRET  TRIBUNAL. 


.207 


Where  the  cheek  .of  mirth  is  glowing, 
And  the  wine-cup  brightly  flowing, 
He  comes,  with  trophies  worthy  of  his  line, 
The  son,  of  heroes,  Ulric  of  the  Rhine  !" 

He  came — he  sought  his  Ella's  bowers, 
He  traversed  Lindheim's  lonely  towers  ; 
But  voice  and  footstep  thence  had  fled, 
As  from  the  dwellings  of  the  dead. 
And  the  sounds  of  human  joy  and  woe 
Gave  place  to  the  moan  of  the  wave  below. 
The  banner  still  the  rampart  crowned, 
But  the  tall  rank  grass  waved  thick  around  ; 
Still  hung  the  arms  of  a  race  gone  by 
In  the  blazoned  halls  of  their  ancestry; 
But  they  caught  no  more,  at  fall  of  night. 
The  wavering  flash  of  the  torch's  light, 
And  they  sent  their  echoes  forth  no  more 
To  the  Minnesinger's*  tuneful  lore. 
For  the  hands  that  touched  the  harp  were 

gone, 

And  the  hearts  were  cold  that  loved  its  tone ; 
And  the  soul  of  the  chord  lay  mute  and  still, 
Save  when  the  wild  wind  bad  it  thrill, 
And  woke  from  itsdepth  a  dream-like  moan, 
For  life,  and  power,  and  beauty  gone. 

The  warrior  turned,  from  that  silent  scene, 
vVhere  a  voice  of  woe  had  welcome  been  ; 
And  his  heart  was  heavy  with  boding 

thought, 

As  the  forest  paths  alone  he  sought. 
He  reached  a  convent's  fane,  that  stood 
Deep  bosomed  in  luxuriant  wood  ; 
Still,  solemn,  fair — it  seemed  a  spot 
Where  earthly  care  might  be  all  forgot, 
And  sounds  and  dreams  of  heaven  alone 
To  musing  spirit  might  be  known. 
— And  sweet  even  then  were  the  sounds 

that  rose 

On  the  holy  and  profound  repose. 
Oh  !  they  came  o'er  the  warrior's  breast 
Like  a  glorious  anthem  of  the  blest ; 
And  fear  and  sorrow  died  away 
Before  the  full  majestic  lay. 
He  entered  the  secluded  fane, 
Which  sent  forth  that  inspiring  strain ; 
He  gazed — the  hallowed  pile's  array 
Was  that  of  some  high  festal  day  ; 
Wreaths  of  all  hues  its  pillars  bound, 
Flowers  of  all  scents  were  strewed  around  ; 
The  rose  exhaled  its  fragrant  sigh, 
Blest  on  the  altar  to  smile  and  die  ;• 
And  a  fragrant  cloud  from  the  censer's 

breath 
Half  hxi  the  sacred  pomp  beneath ; 


*  Gemvun  minstreL 


And  still  the  peal  of  choral  song 
Swelled  the  resounding  aisles  along  ; 
Wakening,  in  its  triumphant  flow, 
Deep  echoes  from  the  graves  below. 

Why,  from  its  woodland  birthplace  torn, 
Doth  summer's  rose  that  scene  adorn  ? 
Why  breathes  the  incense  to  the  sky  ? 
Why  swells  the  exulting  harmony? 
— And  see'st  thou  not  yon  form,  so  light 
It  seems  half  floating  on  the  sight, 
As  if  the  whimper  of  a  gale, 
That  did  but  wave  its  snowy  veil, 
Might  bear  it  from  the  earth  afar. 
A  lovely  but  receding  star  ? 
Know  that  devotion's  shrine  even  now 
Receives  that  youthful  vestal's  vow — 
For  this,  high  hymns,  sweet  odours  rise, 
A  jubilee  of  sacrifice. 
Mark  yet  a  moment !  from  her  brow 
Yon  priest  shall  lift  the  veil  of  snow, 
Ere  yet  z.  darker  mantle  hide 
The  charms  to  heaven  thus  sanctified: 
Stay  thee  !  and  catch  their  parting  gleam, 
That    ne'er   shall     fade    from    memory's 

dream. 

A  moment?    Oh  !  to  Ulric's  soul, 
Poised  between  hops  and  fenr's  control, 
What  slow  unmeasured  houis  went  by, 
Ere  yet  suspense  grew  certaiiUy  ! 
It  came  at  length.     Once  more  that  face 
Revealed  to  man  its  mournful  grace  : 
A  sunbeam  on  its  icatures  fell, 
As  if  to  bear  the  world's  farewell  ; 
And  doubt  was  o  er.     His  heart  grew  chill, 
Twas   she— though  changed— 'twas  Ella 

still  I 

Though  now  her  once-rejoicing  mien. 
Was  deeply,  mournfully  serene  ; 
Though  clouds  her  eye's  blue  lustre  shaded, 
And  the  young  cheek  beneath  had  faded, 
Well,  well  he  knew  the  form  which  cast 
Light  on  his  soul  through  all  the  past  1 
'Twas  with  him  on  the  battle-plain  ; 
'Twas  with  him  on  the  stormy  main  ; 
'Twas  in  his  visions,  when  the  shield 
Pillowed  his  head  on  tented  field  ; 
'Twas  a  bright  beam  that  led  him  oa 
Where'er  a  triumph  might  be  won — 
In  danger  as  in  glory  nigh, 
An  angel-guide  to  victory  I 

She  caught  his  pale  bewildered  gaze 
Of  grief  half  lost  in  fixed  amaze. 
Was  it  some  vain  illusion,  wrought 
By  frenzy  of  impassioned  thought  ? 
Some  phantom,  such  as  Grief  hath  power 
To  summon  in  her  wandering  hour  ? 


208 


THE  CARAVAN  W  TEE  DE8EET. 


No  !  it  was  he !  the  lost,  the  mourned— 
Too  deeply  loved,  too  late  returned^ ! 
— A  feverish  blush,  a  sudden  start, 
Spoke  the  last  weakness  of  her  heart  : 
'Twas  vanquished  soon — the  hectic  red 
A  moment  flushed  her  cheek  and  fled. 
Once  more  serene,  her  steadfast  eye 
Looked  up  as  to  eternity  ; 
Then  gazed  on  Ulric,  with  an  air 
That  said — the  home  of  Love  is  there  I 

Yes  !  there  alone  it  smiled  for  him, 
Whose  eyes  before  that  look  grew  dim. 


Not  long  'twas  his  even  thui  to  view 
The  beauty  of  its  calm  adieu  ; 
Soon  o'er  those  features,  brightly  pale, 
Was  cast  the  impenetrable  veil ; 
And,  if  one  human  sigh  were  given 
By  the  pure  bosom  vowed  to  Heaven, 
'Twas  lost,  as  many  a  murmured  sound 
Of  grief,  ' '  not  loud  but  deep'j "  is  drowned^ 
In  hymns  of  joy,  which  proudly  rise 
To  tell  the  calm  untroubled  skies 
That  earth  hath  banished  care  and  woe, 
And  man  holds  festival  below  1 


THE  CARAVAN  IN  THE  DESERT. 


CALL  it  not  loneliness  to  dwell 
In  woodland  shade  or  hermit  dell, 
Or  the  deep  forest  to  explore, 
Or  wander  Alpine  regions  o'er ; 
For  nature  there  all  joyous  reigns, 
And  fills  with  life  her  wild  domains  : — 
A  bird's-light  wing  may  break  the  air, 
A  wave,  a  leaf,  may  murmur  there ; 
A  bee  the  mountain  flowers  may  seek, 
A  chamois  bound  from  peak  to  peak ; 
An  eagle,  rushing  to  the  sky, 
Wake  the  deep  echoes  with  his  cry ; 
And  still  some  sound,  thy  heart  to  cheer, 
Some  voice  though  not  of  man  is  near. 
But  he  whose  weary  step  hath  traced 
Mysterious  Afric's  awful  waste — 
Whose  eye  Arabia's  wilds  hath  viewed, 
Can  tell  thee  what  is  soljtude  ? 
It  is  to  traverse  lifeless  plains, 
Where  everlasting  stillness  reigns, 
And  billowy  sands  and  dazzling  sky 
Seem  boundless  as  infinity  1 
It  is  to  sink,  with  speechless  dread, 
In  scenes  unmeet  for  mortal  tread, 
Severed  from  earthly  being's  trace, 
Alone  amidst  eternal  space  I 

'Tis  noon — and,  fearfully  profound 
Silence  is  on  the  desert  round  ; 
Alone  she  reigns,  above,  beneath, 
With  all  the  attributes  of  death  ! 
No  bird  the  blazing  heaven  may  dare, 
No  insect  bide  the  scorching  air ; 
The  ostrich,  though  of  sunborn  race, 
Seeks  a  more  sheltered  dwelling-place ; 
The  lion  slumbers  in  his  lair, 
The  serpent  shuns  the  noontide  glare. 
But  slowly  winds  the  patient  train 
Of  camels  o'er  the  blasted  plain. 


Where  they  and  man  may  brave  alone 
The  terrors  of  the  burning  zone. 

Faint  not,  O  pilgrims  !  though  on  high 
As  a  volcano  flames  the  sky  : 
Shrink  not,  though  as  a  furnace  glow 
The  dark-red  seas  of  sand  below  ; 
Though  not  a  shadow,  save  your  own. 
Across  the  dread  expanse  is  thrown. 
Mark  where,  your  feverish  lips  to  lave, 
Wide  spreads  the  fresh  transparent  wave  I 
Urge  your  tired  camels  on,  and  take 
Your  rest  beside  yon  glistening  lake  ; 
Thence,  haply,  cooler  gales  may  spring, 
And  fan  your  brows  with  lighter  wing. 
Lo  1  nearer  now,  its  glassy  tide 
Reflects  th6  date-tree  on  its  side. 
Speed  on  !  pure  draughts  and  genial  air, 
And  verdant  shade,  await  you  there. 
Oh  I  glimpse  of  heaven,  to  him  unknown 
That  hath  not  trod  the  burning  zone  ! 
Forward  they  press — they  gaze  dismayed- 
The  waters  of  the  desert  fade  1 
Melting  to  vapours  that  elude 
The  eye,  the  lip,  they  vainly  wooed.* 

What  meteor  comes  ?    A  purple  haze 
Hath  half  obscured  the  noontide  rays : 
Onward  it  moves  in  swift  career, 
A  blush  upon  the  atmosphere. 
Haste,  haste  I  avert  th'  impending  doom : 
Fall  prostrate  I  'tis  the  dread  Simoom  ! 
Bow  down  your  faces — till  the  blast 
On  its  red  wing  of  flame  hath  passed, 
Far  bearing  o'er  the  sandy  wave 
The  viewless  Angel  of  the  Grave. 

It  came — 'tis  vanished — but  hathleft 
The  wanderers  even  of  hope  bereft ; 

*  ?hemii«g*. 


THE  CARAVAN  IN  THE  DESERT. 


The  ardent  heart,  the  vigorous  frame, 
Pride,  courage,  strength,  its  power  could 

tame. 

Faint  with  despondence,  worn  with  toil, 
They  si  il.  upon  the  burning  soil, 
Resigned,  amidst  those  realms  of  gloom, 
To  find  their  deathbed  and  their  tomb. 

But  onward  still  I — yon  distant  spot 
Of  verdure  can  deceive  you  not ; 
Yon  palms,  which  tremulously  seemed 
Reflected  as  the  waters  gleamed, 
Along  the  horizon's  verge  displayed, 
Still  rear  their  slender  colonnades — 
A  landmark,  guiding  o'er  the  plain 
The  Caravan's  exhausted  train. 
Fair  is  that  little  Isle  of  Bliss, 
The  desert's  emerald  oasis  I 
A  rainbow  on  the  torrent's  wave, 
A  gem  e  mbosomed  in  the  grave, 
A  sunb.ara  on  the  stormy  day, 
Its  beauty's  image  might  convey  I 
Beauty,  in  horror's  lap  that  sleeps, 
While  silence  round  her  vigil  keeps. 

Rest,  weary  pilgrims !  calmly  laid 
To  slumber  in  the  acacia  shade : 
Rest,  where  the  shrubs  your  camels  bruise 
Their  aromatic  breath  diffuse  ; 
Where  softer  light  the  sunbeams  pour 
Through  the  tall  palm  and  sycamore ; 
And  the  rich  date  luxuriant  spreads 
Its  pendant  clusters  o  er  your  heads. 
Nature  once  more,  to  seal  your  eyes, 
Murmurs  her  sweetest  lullabies  ; 
Again  each  heart  the  music  hails 
Of  rustling  leaves  and  sighing  gales  : 
And  oh !  to  Afric's  child  how  dear 
The  voice  of  fountains  gushing  near ! 
Sweet  be  your  slumbers  I  and  your  dreams 
Of  waving  groves  and  rippling  streams  1 
Far  be  the  serpent's  venomed  coil 
From  the  brief  respite  won  by  toil ; 
Far  be  the  awful  shades  of  those 
Who  deep  beneath  the  sands  repose — 
The  hosts,  to  whom  the  desert's  breath 
Bore  swift  and  stern  the  call  of  death. 
Sleep  I   nor  may  scorching  blast  invade 
The  freshness  of  the  acacia  shade, 
But  gales  of  heaven  your  spirits  bless 
With  life's  best  balm — forgetfulness  I 
Till  night  from  many  an  urn  diffuse 
The  treasures  of  her  world  of  dews. 

The  day  h'ath  closed — the  moon  on  high 
Walks  in  her  cloudless  majesty, 
A  thousand  stars  to  Afric's  heaven 
Serene  magnificence  have  given — 


Pure  beacons  of  the  sky,  whose  flame 
Shines  forth  eternally  the  same. 
Blest  be  their  beams,  whose  holy  light 
Shall  guide  the  camel's  footsteps  right. 
— Rise !  bid  your  Isle  of  Palms  adieu  1 
Again  your  lonely  march  pursue. 
While  airs  of  night  are  freshly  blowing, 
And  heavens  with  softer  beauty  glowing. 

'Tis  silence  all.    The  solemn  scene 
Wears  at  each  step  a  ruder  mien  ; 
For  giant-rocks,  at  distance  piled, 
Cast  their  deep  shadows  o'er  the  wild. 
Darkly  they  rise — what  eye  hath  viewed 
The  caverns  of  their  solitude  ? 
Away !  within  those  awful  cells 
The  savage  lord  of  Afric  dwells. 
Heard  ye  his  voice? — the  lion's  roar 
Swells  as  wnen  billows  break  on  shore, 
Well  may  the  camel  shake  with  fear, 
And  the  steed  pant — his  foe  is  ilear. 
Haste  I   light  the  torch ;  bid  watchfires 

throw 

Far  o'er  the  waste  a  ruddy  glow ; 
Keep  vigil — guard  the  bright  array 
Of  flames  that  scare  him  from  his  prey ; 
Within  their  magic  circle  press, 
O  wanderer  of  the  wilderness ! 
Heap  high  the  pile,  and  by  its  blaze 
Tell  the  wild  tales  of  elder  days, — 
Arabia's  wondrous  lore,  that  dwells 
On  warrior  deeds  and  wizard  spells  ; 
Enchanted  domes  'mid  scenes  like  these 
Rising  to  vanish  with  the  breeze  ; 
Gardens,  whose  fruits  are  gems,  that  shed 
Their  light  where  mortal  may  not  tread ; 
And  spirits,  o'er  whose  pearly  halls 
The  eternal  billow  heaves  and  falls. 
— With  charms  like  these,  of  mystic  power, 
Watchers  I  beguile  the  midnight  hour. 

Slowly  that  hour  hath  rolled  away, 
And  star  by  star  withdraws  its  ray. 
Dark  children  of  the  sun  !  again 
Your  own  rich  orient  hails  his  reign, 
He  comes,  but  veiled — with  sanguine  glare 
Tinging  the  mists  that  load  the  air ; 
Sounds  of  dismay  and  signs  of  flame 
The  approaching  hurricane  proclaim . 
'Tis  death's  red  banner  streams  on  high — 
Fly  to  the  rocks  for  shelter  ! — fly  ! 
Lo !  darkening  o'er  the  fiery  skies, 
The  pillars  of  the  desert  rise ! 
On,  in  terrific  grandeur  wheeling, 
A  giant-host,  the  heavens  concealing, 
They  move  like  mighty  genii-forms 
Towenng    immense    'midst   clouds   and 
storms. 


210       MARIUS  AMONGST  TEE  RVINS  OF  CARTHAGE. 


Who  shall  escape?    With  awful  force 
The  whirlwind  bears  them  on  their  course  ; 
They  join,  they  rush  resistless  on — 
The  landmarks  of  the  plain  are  gone  ; 
The  steps,  the  forms,  from  each  effaced, 
Of  those  who  trod  the  burning  waste 
All  whelmed,  all  hushed  1 — none  left  to  bear 


Sad  record  how  they  perished  there  I 
No  stone  their  tale  of  death  shall  tell — 
The  desert  guards  its  mysteries  well  ; 
And  o'er  the  unfathomed  sandy  deep, 
Where  low  their  nameless  relics  sleep, 
Oft  shall  the  future  pilgrim  tread, 
Nor  know  his  steps  are  on  the  dead. 


MARIUS  AMONGST  THE  RUINS  OF  CARTHAGE. 

{"  Marius,  during  the  time  of  his  exile,  seeking  refuge  In  Africa,  had  landed  at  Carthage,  when 
an  officer,  sent  by  the  Roman  governor  of  Africa,  came  and  thus  addressed  him : — '  Marius,  I 
come  from  the  Prsetor  Sextillius,  to  tell  you  that  he  forbids  you  to  set  foot  in  Africa.  If  you  obey 
not,  he  will  support  the  Senate's  decree,  and  treat  you  as  a  public  enemy.'  Marius  upon  hearing 
this,  was  struck  dumb  with  grief  and  indignation.  He  uttered  not  a  word  for  some  time,  but  re- 
garded the  officer  with  a  menacing  aspect.  At  length  the  officer  inquired  what  answer  he  should 
carry  to  the  governor.  '  Go  and  tell  him,'  said  she  unfortunate  man,  with  a  sigh,  '  that  thou  hast 
seen  the  exiled  Marius  sitting  on  the  ruins  of  Carthage.' " — PLUTARCH.] 


'TWAS  noon, — and  Afric's dazzling  sun  on 

high  [clouded  sky ; 

With    fierce  resplendence   filled    the  un- 
No  zephyrs    waved  the  palm's    majestic 

head,  [spread ; 

And  smooth  alike  the  seas   and  deserts 
While  desolate,  beneath  a  blaze  of  light, 
Silent  and  lonely,  as  at  dead  of  night, 
The  wreck  of  Carthage  lay.    Her  prostrate 

fanes  [plains. 

Had  strewed  their  precious  marble  o'er  the 
Dark  weeds  and  grass  the  column  had  o'er- 

grown, 

The  lizard  basked  upon  the  altar-stone ; 
Whelmed  by  the  ruins  of  their  own  abodes, 
Had  sunk  the  forms  of  heroes  and  of  gods  ; 
While  near— dread  offspring  of  the  burning 

day ! — 
Coiled  'midst  forsaken  halls  the  serpent  lay. 

There  came  an  exile,  long  by  fate  pur- 
sued, 

To  shelter  in  that  awful  solitude. 

Well  did  that  wanderer's  high  yet  faded 
mien 

Suit  the  sad  grandeur  of  the  desert  scene. 

Shadowed,  not  veiled,  by  locks  of  wintry 
snow,  [brow ; 

Pride  sat,  tstill  mighty,  on  his  furrowed 

Time  hath  not  quenched  the  terrors  of  his 
eye, 

Nor  'tamed  his  glance  of  fierce  ascendancy  ; 

While  the  deep  meaning  of  his  features  told 

Ages  of  thought  had  o'er  his  spirit  rolled, 

Nor  dimmed  the  fire  that  might  not  be 
controlled; 


And  still  did  power  invest  his  stately  form, 
Shattered,   but  yet  unconquered,   by  the 
storm. 

[o'erthrown, 

But  slow  his  step — and  where,  not  yet 
Still  towered  a  pillar  'midst  the  waste  alone, 
Faint  with  long  toil,  his  weary  limbs  he 

laid, 

To  slumber  in  its  solitary  shade. 
He  slept — and  darkly,  on  his  brief  repose, 
The  indignant  Genius  of  the  scene  arose. 
Clouds  robed  his  dim  unearthly  form,  and 
spread  [head, 

Mysterious  gloom    around   his  crownless 
Crownless,  but  regal  still.     With  stem  dis- 
dain, 

The  kingly  shadow  seemed  to  lift  his  chain, 
Gazed  on  the  palm,  his  ancient  sceptre  torn, 
And  his  eye  kindled  with  immortal  scorn. 

"  And  sleep's!  thou,  Roman?"  cried  his 

voice  austere ; 

"  Shall  son  of  Latium  find  a  refuge  here  f 
Awake  I  arise  !  to  speed  the  hour  of  Fate, 
When  Rome  shall  fall,  as  Carthage  deso- 
late, [the  brave, 
Go  !  wjth  her  children's  flower,  the  free, 
People  the  silent  chambers  of  the  grave  : 
So  shall  the  course  of  ages  yet  to  be 
More  swiftly  waft  the  day,  avenging  me. 

"  Yes  I  from  the  awful  gulf  of  years  to 

come, 

I  heaa  a.  •voice  that  prophecies  her  doom  ; 
I  see  the  trophies  of  her  pride  decay, 
And  her  long  Ime  of  triumphs  r«ss  away, 


A  TALE  OF  THE  FOURTEENTH  CENTURY. 


211 


Lost  in  the  depth  of  time— while  sinks  the 

star 

That  led  her  march  of  heroes  from  afar. 
Lo  !  from  the  frozen  forests  of  the  North, 
The  sons  of  slaughter  pour  in  myriadsforth. 
Who  shall  awake  the  mighty  ? — will  thy 

woe, 

City  of  thrones  !  disturb  the  realms  below  ? 
CaU  on  the  dead  to  hear  thee  I  let  thy  cries 
Summon  their  shadowy  legions  to  arise, 
Array  the  ghost  of  conquerors  on  thy  walls  I 
— Barbarians  revel  in  their  ancient  halls, 
And  their  lost  children  bend  the  subject 

knee,  [free. 

"Midst  the  proud  tombs  and  trophies  of  the 
Bird  of  the  sun  1  dread  eagle  1  born  on 

high,  [eye 

A  creature  of  the  empyreal — thou,  whose 
Was  lightning  to  the  earth — whose  pinion 

waved 

In  haughty  triumph  o'er  a  world  enslaved ; 
Sink  from  thy  heavens  1  for  glory's  noon  is 

o'er,  [more. 

And  rushing  storms  shall  bear  thee  on  no 
Closed  is  thy  regal  course — thy  crest  is  torn, 
And  thy  plume  banished  from  the  realms 

of  mom.  [chiefs  and  kings, 

The  shaft  hath  reached  thee :  rest  with 
Who  conquered  in  the  shadow  of  thy 

wings.  [prey, 

Sleep !  while  thy  foes  exult  around  their 
And  share  thy  glorious  heritage  of  day. 
But  darker  years  shall  mingle  with  the  past, 
And  deeper  vengeance  shall  be  mine  at  last. 
O'er  the  seven  hills  I  see  destruction  spread, 
And  Empire's  widow  veils  with  dust  her 

head. 

Her  gods  forsake  each  desolated  shrine, 
Her  temples  moulder  to  the  earth  like  mine : 
'Midst  fallen  palaces  she  sits  alone, 
Calling  heroic  shades  from  ages  gone, 


Or  bids  the  nations  'midst  her  deserts  wait 
To  learn  the  fearful  oracle  of  Fate. 

"Still  sleep 'st  thou,    Roman?   Son  of 

Victory,  rise  1 

Wake  to  obey  the  avenging  Destinies. 
Shed  by  thy  mandate,  soon  thy  country's 

blood 

Shall  swell  and  darken  Tiber's  yellow  flood. 
My  children's  manes  call.  Awake !  prepare 
The  feast  they  claim  I — exult  in  Rome's 

despair !  [cries, 

Be  thine  ear  closed  against  her  suppliant 
Bid  thy  soul  triumph  in  her  agonies  ; 
Let  carnage  revel  even  her  shrines  among  ; 
Spare  not  the  valiant,  pity  not  the  young  ! 
Haste  I  o'er  her  hills  the  sword's  libation 

shed,  [head !" 

And  wreak  the  curse  of  Carthage  on  her 

The  vision  flies.    A  mortal  step  is  near 
Whose  echoes  vibrate  on  the  slumberer's 

ear.  [stands 

He  starts — he  wakes  to  woe.     Before  him 
The  unwelcome  messenger  of  harsh  com- 
mands, 

Whose  faltering  accents  tell  the  exiled  chief 
To  seek  on  other  shores  a  home  for  grief. 
— Silent  the  wanderer  sat — but  on  his  cheek 
The  burning  glow  far  more  than  words 

might  speak ;  [broke 

And,  from  the  kindling  of  his  eye,  there 
Language  where  all  the  indignant  soul 

awoke, 
Till  his  deep  thought  found  voice :  thec 

calmly  stern, 
And    sovereign    in    despair,     he    cried, 

"Return  I  [seen 

Tell  him  who  sent  thee  hither,  thou  hast 
Marius,  the  exile,  rest  where  Carthage  once 

hath  been  1" 


A  TALE  OF  THE  FOURTEENTH  CENTURY. 


A   FRAGMENT. 


THE  moorfbeam,  quivering  o'er  the  wave, 
Sleeps  in  pale  gold  on  wood  and  hill, 
The  wild  wind  slumbers  in  its  cave, 
And  heaven  is  cloudless— earth  is  still. 
The  pile  that  crowns  yon  savage  height 
With  battlements  of  Gothic  might, 
Rises  in  softer  pomp  arrayed, 
Its  massy  towers  half  lost  in  shade, 
Half  touched  with  mellowing  lignt. 


The  rays  of  night,  the  tints  of  time, 
Soft-mingling  on  its  dark-grey  stone, 
O'er  its  rude  strength  and  mien  sublime, 
A  placid  smile  have  thrown. 
And  far  beyond,  where  wild  and  high. 
Bounding  the  pale-blue  summer  sky, 
A  mountain  vista  meets  the  eye, 
Its  dark,  luxuriant  woods  assume 
A  pencilled  shade,  a  softer  gloost :  , 


212 


A  TALE  OF  THE  FOURTEENTH  CENTURY. 


Its  jutting  cliffs  have  caught  the  light, 

Its  torrents  glitter  through  the  night, 

While  every  cave  and  deep  recess 

Frowns  in  more  shadowy  awfulness. 

Scarce  moving  on  the  glassy  deep 

Yon  gallant  vessel  seems  to  sleep  ; 

But  darting  from  its  side, 

How  swiftly  does  ifs  boat  design 

A  slender,  silvery,  waving  line 

Of  radiance  o'er  the  tide  1 

No  sound  is  on  the  summer  seas 

But  the  low  dashing  of  the  oar, 

And  faintly  sighs  the  midnight  breeze 

Through  woods   that  fringe   the   rocky 

shore. 

That  boat  had  reached  the  silent  bay — 
The  dashing  oar  has  ceased  to  play ; 
The  breeze  has  murmured  and  has  died 
In  forest  shades,  on  ocean's  tide. 
No  step,  no  tone,  no  breath  of  sound 
Disturbs  the  loneliness  profound  ; 
And  midnight  spreads  o'er  earth  and  main 
A  calm  so  holy  and  so  deep, 
That  voice  of  mortal  were  profane 
To  break  on  nature's  sleep. 
It  is  the  hour  for  thought  to  soar 
High  o'er  the  cloud  of  earthly  woes ; 
For  rapt  devotion  to  adore — 
For  passion  to  repose ; 
And  virtue  to  forget  her  tears 
In  visions  of  sublimer  spheres. 
For  oh  !  those  transient  gleams  of  heaven, 
To  calmer,  purer  spirits  given, 
Children  of  hallowed  peace,  are  known 
In  solitude  and  shade  alone. 
Like  flowers  that  shun  the  blaze  of  noon 
To  blow  beneath  the  midnight  moon, 
The  garish  world  they  will  not  bless, 
But  only  live  in  loneliness. 
Hark  I  did  some  note  of  plaintive  swell 
Melt  on  the  stillness  of  the  air  ? 
Or  was  it  fancy's  powerful  spell 
That  woke  such  sweetness  there  ? 
For  wild  and  distant  it  arose, 
Like  sounds  that  bless  the  bard's  repose, 
When  in  lone  wood  or  mossy  cave 
He  dreams  beside  some  fountain-wave, 
And  fairy  worlds  delight  the  eyes 
Wearied  with  life's  realities. 

Was  it  illusion  ?    Yet  again 
Rises  and  falls'  the  enchanted  strain, 
Mellow,  and  sweet,  and  faint — 
As  if  some  spirit's  touch  had  given 
The  soul  of  sound  to  harp  of  heaven, 
To  soothe  a  dying  saint. 
Is  it  the  mermaid's  distant  shell, 
Warbling  beneath  the  moonlit  wave? 


Such  witching  tones  might  lure  full  well 

The  seaman  to  his  grave. 

Sure  from  no  mortal  touch  ye  rise, 

Wild,  soft,  aerial  melodies  ! 

Is  it  the  song  of  woodland-fay 

From  sparry  grot,  or  haunted  bower  ? 

Hark  !  floating  on  the  magic  lay 

Draws  near  yon  livid  tower  ! 

Now  nearer  still,  the  listening  ear 

May  catch  sweet  harp-notes,  faint  yet  clear ; 

And  accents  low,  as  if  in  fear. 

Thus  murmur,  half-suppressed  : — 

"Awake  1  the  moon  is  bright  on  high, 

The  sea  is  calm,  the  bark  is  nigh, 

The  world  is  hushed  to  rest !" 

Then  sinks  the  voice — the  strain  is  o'er, 

Its  last  low  cadence  dies  along  the  shore. 

Fair  Bertha  hears  the  expected  song, 
Swift  from  her  tower  she  glides  along  ; 
No  echo  to  her  tread  awakes, 
Her  fairy  step  no  slumber  breaks  ; 
And,  in  that  hour  of  silence  deep, 
While  all  around  the  dews  of  sleep 
O'erpower  each  sense,  each  eyelid  steep, 
Quick  throbs  her  heart  with    hope   and 

fear, 

Her  dark  eye  glistens  with  a  tear. 
Half-wavering  now,  the  varying  cheek 
And  sudden  pause  her  doubts  bespeak, 
The  lip  now  flushed,  now  pale  as  death, 
The  trembling  frame,  the  fluttering  breath  1 
Oh  1  in  that  moment,  o'er  her  soul 
What  struggling  passions  claim  control  I 
Fear,  duty,  love,  in  conflict  high, 
By  turns  have  won  the  ascendancy ; 
And  as,  all  tremulously  bright, 
Streams  o'er  her  face  the  beam  of  night 
What  thousand  mixed  emotions  play 
O'er  that  fair  face,  and  melt  away  ! 
Like  forms  whose  quick  succession  gleams 
O'er  fancy's  rainbow-tinted  dreams  ; 
Like  the  swift  glancing  lights  that  rise 
'Midst  the  wild,  cloud  of  stormy  skies, 
And  traverse  ocean  o'er ; 
So  in  that  full,  impassioned  eye 
The  changeful  meanings  rise  and  die, 
Just  seen — and  then  no  more. 
But  oh  !  too  short  that  pause.    Again 
Thrills  to  her  heart  that  witching  strain  :— 
"Awake  I  the  midnight  moon  is  bright : 
Awake  I  the  moments  wing  their  flight ; 
Haste  1  or  they  speed  in  vain  I" 

O  call  of  Love  I  thy  potent  spell 
O'er  that  weak  heart  prevails  too  well. 
The  "  still  small  voice"  is  heard  no  more 
That  pleaded  duty's  cause  before, 


A  TALE  OF  THE  FOURTEENTH  CENTURY. 


213 


And  fear  is  bushed,  and  doubt  is  gone, 
And  pride  forgot,  and  reason  flown ! 
Her  cheek,  whose  colour  came  and  fled. 
Resumes  its  warmest  brightest  red, 
Her  step  its  quick  elastic  tread, 
Her  eye  its  beaming  smile. 
Through  lonely  court  and  silent  hall, 
Flits  her  light  shadow  o'er  the  wall ; 
And  still  that  low  harmonious  call 
Melts  on  her  ear  the  while, 
Though  love's  quick  ear  alone  could  tell 
The  words  its  accents  faintly  swell : — 
1 '  Awake  !  while  yet  the  lingering  night 
And  stars  and  seas  befriend  our  flight : 
Oh  !  haste,  while  all  is  well  1"— 
The  halls,  the  courts,  the  gates,  are  past, 
She  gains  the  moonlit  beach  at  last. 
Who  waits  to  guide  her  trembling  feet? 
Who  flies  the  fugitive  to  greet? 
He,  to  her  youthful  heart  endeared 
By  all  it  e'er  had  hoped  and  feared, 
Twined  with  each  wish,  with  every  thought, 
Each  day-dream  fancy  e'er  had  wrought. 
Whose  tints  portray  with  flattering  skill 
What  brighter  worlds  alone  fulfil. 
—Alas  1  that  aught  so  fair  should  fly 
Thy  blighting  wand,  Reality  I 

A  chieftain's  mien  her  Osbert  bow, 
A  pilgrim's  lowly  robes  he  wore — 
Disguise  that  vainly  strove  to  hide 
Bearing  and  glance  of  martial  pride  : 
For  he  in  many  a  battle-scene, 
On  many  a  rampart  breach  had  been  ; 
Had  sternly  smiled  at  danger  nigh, 
Had  seen  the  valiant  bleed  and  die, 
And  proudly  reared  on  hostile  tower, 
'Midst  falchion's  clash  and  arrowy  shower, 
Britannia's  banner  high. 
And  though  some  ancient  feud  had  taught 
His  Bertha's  sire  to  loathe  his  name, 
More  noble  warrior  never  fought 
For  glory's  prize  or  England's  fame. 
And  well  his  dark  commanding  eye, 
And  form  and  step  of  stately  grace, 
Accorded  with  achievements  high, 
Soul  of  emprise  and  chivalry, 
Bright  name,  and  generous  race  I 
His  cheek,  embrowned  by  many  a  sun, 
Tells  a  proud  tale  of  glory  won, 
Of  vigil,  march,  and  conrtbat  rude, 
Valour,  and  toil,  and  fortitude. 
Even  while  youth's  earliest  blushes  threw 
Warm  o'er  that  cheek  their  vivid  hue, 
His  gallant  soul,  his  stripling  form, 
Had  braved  the  battle's  rudest  storm  1 
When  England's  conquering  archers  stood, 
And  dyed  thy  plain,  Poitiers  1  with  blood ; 


When  shivered  axe  and  cloven  shield 
And  shattered  helmet  strewed  the  field, 
And  France  around  her  king  in  vain 
Had  marshalled  valour's  noblest  train. 
In  that  dread  strife  his  lightning  eye 
Had  flashed  with  transport  keen  and  high, 
And  'midst  the  battle's  wildest  tide 
Throbbed  his  young  heart  with  hope  and 

pride. 

Alike  that  fearless  heart  could  brave 
Death  on  the  war-field  or  the  wave  ; 
Alike  in  tournament  or  fight 
That  ardent  spirit  found  delight. 
Yet  oft,  'midst  hostile  scenes  afar, 
Bright  o'er  his  soul  a  vision  came, 
Rising  like  some  benignant  star 
On  stormy  seas  or  plains  of  war, 
To  soothe,  with  hopes  more  dear  than  fame, 
The  heart  that  throbbed  to  Bertha's  name, 
And  'midst  the  wildest  rage  of  fight, 
And  in  the  deepest  calm  of  night, 
To  her  his  thoughts  would  wing  their  flight 
With  fond  devotion  warm. 
Oft  would  those  glowing  thoughts  portray 
Some  home,  from  tumults  far  away, 
Graced  with  that  angel  form  I 
And  now  his  spirit  fondly  deems 
Fulfilled  its  loveliest  dearest  dreams. 

Who,  with  pale  cheek  and  locks'  of  snow, 
In  minstrel  garb  attends  the  chief? 
The  moonbeam  on  his  thoughtful  brow 
Reveals  a  shade  of  grief. 
Sorrow  and  time  have  touched  his  face 
With  mournful  yet  majestic  grace, 
Soft  as  the  melancholy  smile 
Of  sunset  on  some  ruined  pile. 
— It  is  the  bard,  whose  song  had  power 
To  lure  the  maiden  from  her  tower — 
The  bard,  whose  wild  inspiring  lays, 
Even  in  gay  childhood's  earliest  days, 
First  woke  in  Osbert 's  kindling  breast 
The  flame  that  will  not  be  represt, 
The  pulse  that  throbs  for  praise. 
Those  lays  had  banished  from  his  eye 
The  bright  soft  tears  of  infancy, 
Had  soothed  the  boy  to  calm  repose, 
Had  hushed  his  bosom's  earliest  woes  ; 
And  when  the  light  of  thought  awoke, 
When  first  young  reason's  day-spring  broke, 
More  powerful  still,  thev  bade  arise 
His  spirit's  burning  energies. 
Then  the  bright  dream  01  glory  warmed, 
Then  the  loud  pealing  war-song  charmed, 
The  legends  of  each  martial  line, 
The  battle-tales  of  Palestine : 
And  oft;  since  then,  his  deeds  had  proved. 
Themes  of  the  lofty  lays,  he  loved. 


214 


A  TALE  OF  THE  FOURTEENTH  CENTURY. 


Now,  at  triumphant  love's  command. 
Since  Osbert  leaves  his  native  land, 
Forsaking  glory's  high  career 
For  her  than  glory  far  more  dear ; 
Since  hope's  gay  dream  and  meteor  ray 
To.  distant  regions  point  his  way, 
That  there  Affection's  hands  may  dress 
A  fairy  bovver  for  happiness  ; 
That  fond  devoted  bard,  though  now 
Time's  wintry  garland  wreathes  his  brow, 
Though  quenched  the  sunbeam  of  his  eye, 
And  fled  his  spirit's  buoyancy, 
And  strength  and  enterprise  are  past, 
Still  follows  constant  to  the  last. 
Though  his  sole  wish  was  but  to  die 
"Midst  the  calm  scenes  of  days  gone  by, 
And  all  that  hallows  and  endears 
The  memory  of  departed  years — 
Sorrow,  and  joy,  and  time,  have  twined 
To  those  loved  scenes  his  pensive  mind  : 
Ah  I  what  can  tear  the  links  apart 
That  bind  his  chieftain  to  his  heart  ? 
What  smile  but  his  with  joy  can  light 
The  eye  obscured  by  age's  night  ? 
Last  of  a  loved  and  ho-.ioured  line,  • 
Last  tie  to  earth  in  life  s  decline. 
Till  death  its  lingering  spark  shall  dim, 
That  faithful  eye  mast  gaze  on  him  t 

Silent  and  swi/c,  with  footstep  light 
Haste  on  those  fugitives  of  night. 
They  reach  the  boat — the  rapid  oar 
Soon  wafts  them  from  the  wooded  shore. 
The  bark  is  gained  1    A  gallant  few, 
Vassals  of  Osbert,  form  the  crew  ; 
The  pennant,  in  the  moonlight  beam, 
With  soft  suffusion  glows  ; 
From  the  white  sails  a  silvery  gleam 
Falls  on  the  wave's  repose  ; 
Long  shadows  undulating  play, 
From  mast  and  streamer,  o'er  the  bay ; 
But  still  so  hushed  the  summer  air, 
They  tremble,  'midst  the  scene  so  fair, 
Lest  morn's  first  beam  behold  them  there. 

Wake,  viewless  wanderer!  breeze  of  night! 
From  river-wave  or  mountain-height, 
Or  dew-bright  couch  of  moss  and  flowers, 
By  haunted  spring  in  forest-bowers. 
Or  dost  thou  lurk  in  pearly  cell, 
In  amber  grot,  where  mermaids  dwell. 
And  caverned  gems  their  lustre  throw 
O'er  the  red  sea-flowers'  vivid  glow — 
Where  treasures,  not  for  mortal  gaze, 
Tn  solitary  splendour  blaze, 
ACld  sounds,  ne'er  heard  by  mortal  ear, 

through    the    deep's    uuTatitonic'i 
sphere? 


What  grove  of  that  mysterious  world 
Holds  thy  light  wing  in  slumber  furled  ? 
Awake  1  o'er  glittering  seas  to  rove ; 
Awake  1'to  guide  the  bark  of  love  1 
Bwift  fly  the  midnight  hours,  and  soon 
shall  fade  the  bright  propitious  moon  ; 
Soon  shall  the  waning  stars  grow  pale, 
Even  now — but  lo  I  the  rustling  sail 
swells  to  the  new-sprung  ocean  gale. 
The  bark  glides  on — their  fears  are  o'er , 
Recedes  the  bold  romantic  shore, 
Its  features  mingling  fast. 
Graze,  Bertha  I  gaze  I  Thy  lingering  eye 
May  still  each  lovely  scene  descry 
Of  years  fo>  ever  past !  [shade 

There  wave    the  woods,   beneath  whose 
With  bounding  step  thy  childhood  played, 
'Midst  ferny  glades  and  mossy  lawns, 
Free  as  their  native  birds  and  fawns  ; 
Listening  the  sylvan  sounds,  that  float 
On  each  low  breeze,  'midst  dells  remote— 
The  ringdove's  deep-melodious  moan, 
The  rustling  deer  in  thickets  lone  : 
The  wild  bee's  hum,  the  aspen's  sigh, 
The  wood-stream's  plaintive  harmony. 
Dear  scenes  of  many  a  sportive  hour, 
There  thine  own  mountains  darkly  tower  : 
'Midst  their  grey  rocks  no  glen  so  rude 
But  thou  hast  loved  its  solitude : 
No  path  so  wild  but  thou  hast  known, 
And  traced  its  rugged  course  alone  : 
The  earliest  wreath  that  bound  thy  hair 
Was  twined  of  glowing  heath-flowers  there. 
There  in  the  day-spring  of  thy  years, 
Undimmed  by  passions  or  by  tears ; 
Oft,  while  thy  bright  enraptured  eye 
Wandered  o'er  ocean,  earth,  or  sky, 
While  the  wild  breeze  that  round  thee  blew, 
Tinged  thy  warm  cheek  with  richer  hue  ;— 
Pure  as  the  skies  that  o'er  thy  head 
Their  clear  and  cloudless  azure  spread ; 
Pure  as  that  gale  whose  light  wing  drew 
Its  freshness  from  the  mountain  dew, 
Glowed  thy  young  heart  with  feelings  high, 
A  heaven  of  hallowed  ecstasy. 
Such  days  were  thine,  ere  love  had  drawn 
A  cloud  o'er  that  celestial  dawn  1 
As  the  clear  dews  in  morning's  beam 
With  soft  reflected  colouring  stream, 
Catch  every  tint  of  eastern  gem 
To  form  the  rose's  diadem, 
But  vanish  when  the  noontide  hour 
Glows  fiercely  on  the  shrinking  flower — 
Thus  in  thy  soul  each  calm  delight, 
Lake   morn's    first   dewdrops,   pure    and 

bright, 

F'etL  swift  from  passion's  blighting  fu«, 
Or  lingered  only  to  expire. 


A  TALE  OF  THE  FOURTEENTH  CENTURY. 


215 


Spring  on  thy  native  hills  again 

Shall  bid  neglected  wild  flowers  rise, 

And  call  forth  in  each  grassy  glen 

Her  brightest  emerald  dyes. 

There  shall  the  lonely  mountain  rose, 

Wreath  of  the  cliffs,  again  disclose  ; 

'Midst  rocky  dells,  each  well-known  stream 

Shall  sparkle  in  the  summer  beam  ; 

The  birch,  o'er  precipice  and  cave, 

Its  feathery  foliage  still  shall  wave; 

The  ash  'midst  rugged  clefts  unveil 

Its  choral  clusters  to  the  gale  ; 

And  autumn  shed  a  warmer  bloom 

O'er  the  rich  he.  th  and  glowing  broom. 

But  thy  light  footstep  there  no  more 

Each  path,  each  dingle  shall  explore. 

In  vain  may  smile  each  green  recess — 

Who  now  shall  pierce  its  loneliness? 

The  stream  through  shadowy   glens  may 

stray — 

Who  now  shall  trace  its  glistening  way  ? 
In  solitude,  in  silence  deep, 
Shrined  'midst  her  rocks  shall  Echo  sleep  ; 
No  lute's  wild  swell  again  shall  rise 
To  wake  her  mystic  melodies. 
All  soft  may  blow  the  mountain  air — 
It  will  not  wave  thy  graceful  hair  ! 
The  mountain-rose  may  bloom  and  die — 
It  will  not  meet  thy  smiling  eye  1 
But  like  those  scenes  of  vanished  days, 
Shall  others  ne'er  delight ; 
Far  lovelier  lands  shall  meet  tby  gaze, 
Yet  seem  not  half  so  bright . 
O'er  the  dim  woodlands'  fading  hue 
Still  gleams  yon  Gothic  pile  on  high  ; 
Gaze  on,  while  yet  'tis  thine  to  view  • 
That  home  of  infancy  ! 
Heed  not  the  night-dew's  chilling  power, 
Heed  not  the  sea-wind's  coldest  hour, 
But  pause  and  linger  on  the  deck, 
Till  of  those  towers  no  trace,  no  speck, 
Is  gleaming  o'er  the  main ; 
For  when  the  mist  of  mom  shall  rise, 
Blending  the  sea,  the  shore,  the  skies, 
That  hpme  once  vanished  from  thine  eyes, 
Shall  bless  them  ne'er  again. 

There  the  dark  tales  and  songs  of  yore 
First  with  strange  transport  thrilled  thy 

soul, 

Even  while  their  fearful  mystic  lore 
From  thy  warm  cheek  the  life-bloom  stole. 
There,  while  thy  father's  raptured  ear 
Dwelt  fondly  on  a  strain  so  dear, 
And  in  his  eye  the  trembling  tear 
Revealed  his  spirit's  trance  ; 
How  oft,  those  echoing  halls  along, 
Thy  thrilling  voice  has  swelled  the  amp— 


Tradition  wild  of  other  days, 

Or  troubadour's  heroic  lay?,  ' 

Or  legend  of  romance  I 

Oh  !  many  an  hour  has  there  been  thine. 

That  memory's  pencil  oft  shall  dress 

In  softer  shades,  and  tints  that  shine 

In  mellowed  loveliness ! 

While  thy  sick  heart  and  fruitless  tears 

Shall  mourn,  with  fond  and  deep  regre 

The  sunshine  of  thine  early  years, 

Scarce  deemed  so  radiant — till  it  set  I 

The  cloudless  peace,  unprized  till  gone, 

The  bliss,  till  vanished  hardly  known  f 

On  rock  and  turret,  wood  and  hill, 
The  fading  moonbeams  linger  still ; 
Still,  Bertha  !  gaze  on  yon  grey  tower, 
At  evening's  last  and  sweetest  hour, 
While  varying  still,  the  western  skies 
Flushed  the  clear  seas  with  rainbow  dyes, 
Whose  warm  suffusions  glowed  and  passed 
Each  richer,  lovelier  than  the  last. 
How  oft,:  while  gazing  on  the  deep, 
That  seemed  a  heaven  of  peace  to  sleep, 
As  if  its  wave,  so  still,  so  fair, 
More  frowning  mien  might  never  wear, 
,The  twilight  calm  of  mental  rest 
Would  steal  in  silence  o'er  thy  breast, 
And  wake  that  dear  and  balmy  sigh 
That  breathes  the  spirit's  harmony  ! — 
Ah  I   ne'er  again  shall  hours  to  thee 

given 
Of  joy  on  earth,  so  near  allied  to  heaven ! 

Why  starts  the  tear  to  Bertha's  eye  ? 
Is  not  her  long-loved  Osbert  nigh  ? 
Is  there  a  grief  his  voice,  his  smile, 
His  words,  are  fruitless  to  beguile? 
—Oh  I  bitter  to  the  youthful  heart, 
That  scarce  a  pang,  a  care  has  known, 
The  hour  when  first  from  scenes  we  part, 
Where  life's  bright  spring  has  flown, — 
Forsaking,  o'er  the  world  to  roam, 
That  little  shrine  of  peace — our  home ! 
E'en  if  delighted  fancy  throw 
O'er  that  cold  world  her  brightest  glow, 
Painting  its  untried  paths  with  flowers 
That  will  not  live  in  earthly  bowers, 
(Too  frail,  too  exquisite,  to  bear 
One  breath  of  life's  ungenial  air ;) 
E'en  if  such  dreams  of  hope  arise 
As  heaven  alone  can  realize, 
Cold  were  the  breast  that  would  not  heave 
One  sigh,  the  home  of  youth  to  leave ; 
Stern  were  the  heart  that  would  not  swell 
To  breathe  life's  saddest  word — farewell ! 
Though  earth  has  many  a  deeper  woe, 
Thouah  tears  more  bitter  far  must  flow. 


216 


A  TALE  OF  THE  FOURTEENTH  CENTURY. 


That  hour,  whate'er  our  future  lot, 
That  first  fond  grief,  is  ne'er  forgot ! 

Such  was  the  pang  of  Bertha's  heart, 
The  thought,  that  bade  the  tear-drop  start ; 
And  Osbert  by  her  side   • 
Heard  the  deep  sigh,  whose  bursting  swell 
Nature's  fond  struggle  told  too  well ; 
And  days  of  future  bliss  portrayed, 
And  love's  own  eloquence  essayed, 
To  soothe  his  plighted  bride  ! 
Of  bright  Arcadian  scenes  he  tells, 
In  that  sweet  land  to  which  they  fly ; 
The  vine-clad  rocks,  the  fragrant  dells 
Of  blooming  Italy. 
For  he  had  roved  a  pilgrim  there, 
And  gazed  on  many  spots  so  fair, 
It  seemed  like  some  enchanted  grove, 
Where  only  peace,  and  joy,  and  love, 
Those  exiles  of  the  world,  might  rove, 
And  breathe  its  heavenly  air ; 
And  all  unmixed  with  ruder  tone, 
Their  "wood-notes  wild"  be  heard  alone  ; 
Far  from  the  frown  of  stem  control, 
That  vainly  would  subdue  the  soul, 
There  shall  their  long-affianced  hands 
Be  joined  in  consecrated  bands. 
And  in  some  rich  romantic  vale, 
Circled  with  heights  of  Alpine  snow, 
Where  citron-woods  enrich  the  gale. 
And  scented  shrubs  their  balm  exhale, 
And  flowering  myrtles  blow ; 
And  'midst  the  mulberry  boughs  on  high 
Weaves  the  wild  vine  her  tapestry ; 
On  some  bright  streamlet's  emerald  side, 
Where  cedars  wave  in  graceful  pride, 
Bosomed  in  groves,  their  home  shall  rise, 
A  sheltered  bower  of  paradise  ! 
Thus  would  the  lover  soothe  to  rest 
With  tales  of  hope  her  anxious  breast ; 
Nor  vain  that  dear  enchanting  lore 
Her  soul's  bright  visions  to  restore, 
And  bid  gay  phantoms  of  delight 
Float  in  soft  colouring  o'er  her  sight. 

O  Youth  !  sweet  May-mom,  fled  so  soon, 
Far  brighter  than  life's  loveliest  noon, 
How  oft  thy  spirit's  buoyant  power 
Will  triumph  e'en  in  sorrow's  hour, 
Prevailing  o'er  regret ! 
As  rears  its  head  the  elastic  flower, 
Though  the  dark  tempest's  recent  shower 
Hang  on  its  petals  yet  1 

Ah  t  not  so  soon  can  hope's  gay  smile 
The  aged  bard  to  j'oy  beguile  ; 
Those  silent  years  that  steal  away        [ra>, 
The  cheek's  warm  rose,  the  eye's  bright 


Win  from  the  mind  a  nobler  prize. 
Even  all  its  buoyant  energies  I 
For  him  the  April  days  are  past, 
When  grief  was  but  a  fleeting  cloud  ; 
No  transient  shade. will  sorrow  cast,' 
When  age  the  spirit's  might  has  bowed  : 
And,  as  he  sees  the  land  grow  dim, 
That  native  land  now  lost  to  him, 
Fixed  are  his  eyes  and  clasped  his  hands, 
And  long  in  speechless  grief  he  stands ; 
So  desolately  calm  his  air, 
He  seems  an  image  wrought  to  bear 
The  stamp  of  deep,  though  hushed  despail 
Motion  and  life  no  sign  bespeaks, 
Save  that  the  night-breeze  o'er  his  cheeks 
Just  waves  his  silvery  hair  : 
Naught  else  could  teach  the  eye  to  know 
His  was  no  sculptured  form  of  woe. 
Long  gazing  o'er  the  darkened  flood, 
Pale  in  that  silent  grief  he  stood, 
Till  the  cold  moon  was  waning  fast, 
And  many  a  lovely  star  had  died, 
And  the  grey  heavens  deep  shadows  cast 
Far  o'er  the  slumbering  tide  ; 
And,  robed  in  one  dark  solemn  hue, 
Arose  the  distant  shore  to  view. 
Then,  starting  from  his  trance  of  woe, 
Tears,  long  suppressed,  in  freedom  flow, 
While  thus  his  wild  and  plaintive  strain 
Blends  with  the  murmur  of  the  main  : 

THE  BARD'S  FAREWELL. 

"  THOU  setting  moon !  when  next  thy  ray? 

Are  trembling  on  the  shadowy  deep, 
The  land  now  fading  from  thy  gaze, 

These  eyes  in  vain  shall  weep  ; 
And  wander  o'er  the  lovely  sea, 
And  fix  their  tearful  glance  on  thee — 
On  *hee  !  whose  light  so  softly  gleams 
Through  the  green  oaks  that  fringe  my 
native  streams. 

"  But  'midst  those  ancient  groves  no  more 

Shall  I  thy  quivering  lustre  hail ; 
Its  plaintive  strain  my  harp  must  pour 

To  swell  a  foreign  gale. 
The  rocks,  the  woods,  whose  echoes  woke 
When  in  full  tones  their  stillness  broke, 
Deserted  now,  shall  hear  alone 
The  brook's  wild  voice,  the  wind's  myste- 
rious moan. 

"And  oh  !  ye  fair  forsaken  halls, 
Left  by  your  lord  to  slow  decay, 

Soon  shall  the  trophies  on  your  walls 
Be  mouldering  fast  away ! 

There  shall  no  choral  songs  resound, 

There  shall  no  festal  board  be  crowned  ; 


BELSHAZZAR'S  FEAST. 


217 


But  ivy  wreathe  the  silent  gate, 
And  all  be  hushed,  and  cold,  and  desolate. 

"  No  banner  from  the  stately  tower 

Shall  spread  its  blazoned  folds  on  high  ; 
There  the  wild  briar  and  summer  flower 

Unmarked  shall  wave  and  die. 
Home  of  the  mighty  !  thou  art  lone, 
The  noonday  of  thy  pride  .is  gone, 
And  midst  thy  solitude  profound 
A  step  shall  echo  like  unearthly  sound  I 

"  From  thy  cold  hearths  no  festal  blaze 

Shall  fill  the  hall  with  ruddy  light, 
Nor  welcome  with  convivial  rays 

^ome  pilgrim  of  the  night. 
But  there  shall  grass  luxuriant  spread, 
As  o'er  the  dwellings  of  the  dead  ; 
And  the  deep  swell  of  every  blast 
Seem  a  wild  dirge  for  years  of  grandeur 
past 


"  And  I — my  joy  of  life  is  fled, 

My  spirit's  power,  my  bosom's  glow  ; 
The  raven  locks  that  graced  my  head 

Wave  in  a  wreath  of  snow  1 
And  where  the  star  of  youth  arose 
I  deemed  life's  lingering  ray  should  close, 
And  those  loved  trees  my  tomb  o'ershade 
JBeneath  whose  arching  bowers  my  child- 
hood played. 

"  Vain  dream  1  that  tomb  in  distant  earth 

Shall  rise,  forsaken  and  forgot ; 
And  thou,  sweet  land  that  gavest  me 

birth! 

A  grave  must  yield  me  not. 
Yet,  haply,  he  for  whom  I  leave    • 
Thy  shores,  in  life's  dark  winter  eve, 
When  cold  the  hand,  and  closed  the  lays, 
And  mute  the  voice  he  loved  to  praise, 
O'er  the  hushed  harp  one  tear  may  shed, 
And  one  frail  garland  o'er  the  minstrel's 
bed  I" 


1823. 

BELSHAZZAR'S    FEAST. 

'TWAS  night  in  Babylon :  yet  many  a  beam 
Of  lamps,  far-glittering  from  her  domes  on  high. 
Shone,  brightly  mingling  in  Euphrates'  stream, 
With  the  clear  stars  of  that  Chaldean  sky 
Whose  azure  knows  no  cloud  ; — each  whispered  sigh 
Of  the  soft  night-breeze  through  her  terrace-bowers 
Bore  deepening  tones  of  joy  and  melody 
O'er  an  illumined  wilderness  of  flowers ; 
And  the  glad  city's  voice  went  up  from  all  her  tower?. 

But  prouder  mirth  was  in  the  kingly  hall, 
Where,  'midst  adoring  slaves,  a  gorgeous  band  ! 
High  at  the  stately  midnight  festival, 
Belshazzar  sat  enthroned. — There  Luxury's  hand  . 
Had  showered  around  all  treasures  that  expand 
Beneath  the  burning  East ; — all  gems  that  pour 
The  sunbeams  back ; — all  sweets  of  many  a  land 
Whose  gales  waft  incense  from  their  spicy  shore  ;— 
But  mortal  Pride  looked  on,  and  still  demanded  more. 

With  richer  zest  the  banquet  may  be  fraught, 
A  loftier  theme  may  swell  th'  exulting  strain  I 
The  Lord  of  nations  spoke, — and  forth  were  brought 
The  spoils  of  Salem's  devastated  fane : 
Thrice  holy  vessels  I — pure  from  earthly  stain. 
And  set  apart,  and  sanctified  to  Him, 
Who  deigned  within  the  oracle  to  reign, 
Revealed,  yet  shadowed  ;  making  noonday  dim, 
To  that  most  glorious  cloud  between  the  Cherubim. 


218  BELSHAZZAR'8  FEAST. 

They  came,  and  louder  pealed  the  voice  of  song, 
And  pride  flashed  brighter  from  the  kindling  eye, 
And  He  who  sleeps  not  heard  th'  elated  throng, 
In  mirth  that  plays  with  thunderbolts,  defy 
The  Rockxrf  Zion  !— Fill  the  nectar  high, 
High  in  the  cups  of  consecrated  gold  I 
And  crown  the  bowl  with  garlands,  ere  they  die, 
And  bid  the  censers  of  the  Temple  hold 
Offerings  to  Babel's  gods,  the  mighty  ones  of  old  ' 

Peace ! — is  it  but  a  phantom  of  the  brain, 
Thus  shadowed  forth  the  senses  to  appal. 
Von  fearful  vision  P^Who  shall  gaze  again 
To  search  its  cause  ? — Along  the  illumined  wall. 
Startling,  yet  riveting  the  eyes  of  all, 
Darkly  it  moves, — a  hand,  a  human  hand, 
O'er  the  bright  lamps  of  that  resplendent  hall 
In  silence  tracing,  as  a  mystic  wand, 
Words  all  unknown,  the  tongue  of  some  far  distant  land. 

There  are  pale  cheeks  around  the  regal  board, 
And  quivering  limbs,  and  whispers  deep  and  low, 
And  fitful  starts  !— the  wine,  in  triumph  poured, 
Untasted  foams,  the  song  hath  ceased  to  flow, 
The  waving  censer  drops  to  earth — and  lo  ! 
The  King  of  Men,  the  Ruler,  girt  with  might, 
Trembles  before  a  shadow  ! — Say  not  so ! — 
The  child  of  dust,  with  guilt's  foreboding  sight, 
Shrinks  from  the  Dread  Unknown,  th'  avenging  Infinite  I 

But  haste  ye  ! — bring  Chaldea's  gifted  seers, 
The  men  of  prescience ! — haply  to  their  eyes, 
Which  track  the  future  through  the  rolling  spheres. 
Yon  mystic  sign  may  speak  in  prophecies. 
They  come — the  readers  of  the  midnight  skies, 
They  that  give  voice  to  visions — but  in  vain-1 
Still  wrapt  in  clouds  the  awful  secret  lies, 
It  hath  no  language  'midst  the  starry  train, 
Earth  has  no  gifted  tongue  Heaven's  mysteries  to  explain. 

Then  stood  forth  one,  a  child  of  other  sires, 
And  other  inspiration ! — One  of  those 
Who  on  the  willows  hung  their  captive  lyres, 
And  sat,  and  wept,  where  Babel's  river  flows. 
His  eye  was  bright,  and  yet  the  deep  repose 
Of  his  pale  features  half  o'erawed  the  mind, 
And  imaged  forth  a  soul,  whose  joys  and  woes 
Were  of  a  loftier  stamp  than  aught  assigned 
To  Earth  ;  a  being  sealed  and  severed  from  mankind. 

Yes  ! — what  was  earth  to  him,  whose  spirit  passed 
Time's  utmost  bounds  ? — on  whose  unshrinking  sight 
Ten  thousand  shapes  of  burning  glory  cast 
Their  full  resplendence  ? — Majesty  and  might 
Were  in  his  dreams  ; — for  him  the  veil  of  light 
Shrouding  heaven's  inmost  sanctuary  and  throne, 
The  curtain  of  th'  unutterably  bright 
Was  raised ! — to  him,  in  fearful  splendour  shown, 
Ancient  of  days  I— «'en  Thou,  mad'st  Thy  dread  presence  known. 


BELtiHAZZAR'S  t'EAST.  219 

He  spoke  :  the  shadows  of  the  things  to  come 
Passed  o'er  his  soul : — "  O  King,  elate  in  pride  i 
God  hath  sent  forth  the  writing  of  thy  doom, 
The  one,  the  living  God,  by  thee  defied  1 
He,  in  whose  balance  earthly  lords  are  tried, 
Hath  weighed,  and  found  thee  wanting.     'Tis  decreed 
The  conqueror's  hands  thy  kingdom  shall  divide, 
The  stranger  to  thy  throne  of  power  succeed  ! 
The  days  are  full,  they  come  ; — the  Persian  and  the  Medt !" 

There  fell  a  moment's  thrilling  silence  round, 
A  breathless  pause !  the  hush  of  hearts  that  beat 
And  limbs  that  quiver  ; — is  there  not  a  sound, 
A  gathering  cry,  a  tread  of  hurrying  feet  ? — 
Twas  but  some  echo,  in  the  crowded  street, 
Of  far-heard  revelry  ;  the  shout,  the  song, 
The  measured  dance  to  music  wildly  sweet, 
That  speeds  the  stars  their  joyous  course  along  ;— 
Away  1  nor  let  a  dream  disturb  the  festal  throng ! 

Peace  yet  again  I — Hark !  steps  in  tumult  flying. 
Steeds  rushing  on,  as  o'er  a  battle-field  t 
The  shout  of  hosts  exulting  or  defying, 
The  press  of  multitudes  that  strive  or  yield  I 
And  the  loud  startling  clash  of  spear  and  shield, 
Sudden  as  earthquake's  burst ! — and,  blent  with  lhes*r, 
The  last  wild  shriek  of  those  whose  doom  is  sealed 
In  their  full  mirth  ! — all  deepening  on  the  breeze 
As  the  long  stormy  roar  of  far-advancing  seas  I 

And  nearer  yet  the  trumpet's  blast  is  swelling, 
Loud,  shrill,  and  savage,  drowning  every  cry  I 
And  lo  1  the  spoiler  in  the  regal  dwelling, 
Death  bursting  on  the  halls  of  revelry  I 
Ere  on  their  brows  one  fragile  rose-leaf  die, 
The  sword  hath  raged  through  joy's  devoted  train, 
Ere  one  bright  star  be  faded  from  the  sky, 
Red  Sames,  like  banners,  wave  from  dome  and  fane ; 
Empire  is  lost  and  won,  Belshazzar  with  the  slain. 

Fallen  is  the  golden  city !  in  the  dust, 
Spoiled  of  her  crown,  dismantled  of  her  state, 
She  that  hath  made  the  Strength  of  Towers  her  trust, 
Weeps  by  her  dead,  supremely  desolate  I 
She  that  beheld  the  nations  at  her  gate, 
Thronging  in  homage,  shall  be  called  no  more 
Lady  of  kingdoms  I — Who  shall  mourn  her  fate  ? 
Her  guilt  is  full,  her  march  of  triumph  o'er ; — 
What  widowed  land  shall  now  her  widowhood  deplore. 

Sit  thou  in  silence  I    Thou  that  wert  enthroned 
On  many  waters  1  thou,  whose  augurs  read 
The  language  of  the  planets,  and  disowned 
The  mighty  name  it  blazons  1 — Veil  thy  head, 
Daughter  of  Babylon  I  the  sword  is  red 
From  thy  destroyers'  harvest,  and  the  yoke 
Is  on  thee,  O  most  proud !— for  thou  hast  said, 
"  I  am,  and  none  beside  I" — Th'  Eternal  spoke, 
Thy  glory  was  a  spoil,  thine  idol-gods  were  broke. 


S20 


THE  LAST  CONSTANTINO. 


But  go  thou  forth,  O  Israel  I  wake  !  rejoice ! 
Be  clothed  with  strength,  as  in  thine  ancient  day. 
Renew  the  sound  of  harps,  th'  exulting  voice, 
The  mirth  of  timbrels  ! — loose  the  chain,  and  say 
God  hath  redeemed  his  people  ! — from  decay 
The  silent  and  the  trampled  shall  arise ; — 
Awake  ;  put  on  thy  beautiful  array ; 
O  long-forsaken  Zion  ! — to  the  skies 
'Send  up  on  every  wind  thy  choral  melodies  I 

And  lift  thy  head  ! — Behold  thy  sons  returning, 
Redeemed  from  exile,  ransomed  from  the  chain  3 
Light  hath  revisited  the  house  of  mourning  ; 
She  that  on  Judah's  mountains  wept  in  vain 
Because  her  children  were  not — dwells  again 
Girt  with  the  lovely  1 — through  thy  streets  once  more, 
City  of  God  !  shall  pass  the  bridal  train, 
And  the  bright  lamps  their  festive  radiance  pour,    ' 
And  the  triumphal  hymns  thy  joy  of  youth  restore  I 


THE    LAST    CONSTANTJNE. 

.    .    .    .     "  Thou  strivest  nobly, 

When  hearts  of  sterner  stuff  perhaps  had  sunk  ; 

And  o'er  thy  fall,  if  it  be  so  decreed, 

Good  men  will  mourn,  and  brave  men  will  shed  tears; 

....     Fame  I  look  not  for ; 

But  to  sustain,  in  Heaven's  all-seeing  eye, 

Before  my  fellow-men,  in  mine  own  sight, 

With  graceful  virtue  and  becoming  pride, 

The  dignity  and  honour  of  a  man. 

Thus  stationed  as  I  am,  I  will  do  all 

That  man  may  do." — Constantine  Palteolagus. 


I. 

THE  fires  grew  pale  on  Rome's  deserted 

shrines  ; 

In  the  dim  grot  the  Pythia's  voice  had  died. 
Shout  for  the  city  of  the  Constantines, 
The  rising  city  of  the  billow-side, 
The    City  of  the  Cross  I — great  Ocean's 

bride,  [ages  past, 

Crowned  from  her  birth  she  sprang  !  Long 
And  still  she  looked  in  glory  o'er  the  tide, 
Which  at  her  feet  barbaric  riches  cast, 
Poured  by  the  burning  East  all  joyously 

and  fast. 

n. 

Long  ages  passed  !  They  left  her  porphyry 

haUs  [gold 

Still  trod  by  kingly  footsteps.     Gems  and 

Broidered  her  mantle,  and  her  castled  walls 

Frowned  in  her  strength ;  yet  there  were 

signs  which  told  [of  old 

The  days  were  full.    The  pare  high  faith 


Was  changed  ;  and  on  her  silken  couch  of 

sleep 

She  lay, -and  murmured  if  a  rose-leafs  fold 
Disturbed  her  dreams ;  and  called  her 

•slaves  to  keep 
Their  watch,  that  no  rude  sound  might 

reach  her  o'er  the  deep. 

in. 

But  there  are  sounds  that  from  the  regal 

dwelling 

Free  hearts  and  fearless  only  may  exclude  ; 
'Tis  not  alone  the  wind  at  midnight  swelling 
Breaks  on  the  soft  repose  by  luxury  wooed. 
There  are  unbidden  footsteps,  which  intrude 
Where  the  lamps  glitter  and  the  wine-cup 

flows ;  [strewed 

And  darker  hues  have  stained  the  marble, 
With  the  fresh  myrtle  and  the  short-lived 

rose  ;  [march  of  foes. 

And  Parian  walls  have  rung  to  the  dread: 


THE  LAST  CONSTANTINO. 


221 


rv. 

A  voice  of  multitudes  is  on  the  breeze, 
Remote,  yetjsolemn  as  the  night-storm's  roar 
Through  Ida's  giant-pines.   Across  the  seas 
A  murmur  comes,  like  that  the  deep  winds 

bore 

From  Tempe's  haunted  river  to  the  shore 
Of-the  reed-crowned  Eurotas  ;  when  of  old 
Dark  Asia  sent  her  battle-myriads  o'er 
The  indignant  wave,  which  would  not  be 

controlled,  [freedom  rolled. 

But  past  the  Persian's  chain  in  boundless 

v. 

And  it  is  thus  again  !  Swift  oars  are  dashing 
The  parted  waters,  and  a  light  is  cast 
On  their  white   foam-wreaths,  from    the 
sudden  flashing  [ing  fast. 

Of  Tartar  spears,  whose  ranks  are  thicken- 
There  swells  a  savage  trumpet  on  the  blast, 
A  music  of  the  deserts,  wild  and  deep, 
Wakening  strange  echoes,   as  the  shores 

are  passed 

Where  low  '  'midst  Ilion's  dust  her  con- 
querors sleep, 

D'ershadowing  with  high  names  each  rude 
sepulchral  heap. 

VI. 

War   from    the   West !    The   snows   on 
Thracian  hills  [the  lands 

Are  loosed  by  Spring's  warm  breath;  yet  o'er 
Which  Haemus  girds,  the  chainless  moun- 
tain-rills [bands. 
Pour  down  less  swiftly  than  the  Moslem 
War  from  the  East  1    'Midst  A.-aby's  lone 
sands,  [be, 
More  lonely  now  the  few  bright  founts  may 
While  Ismael's  bow  is  bent  in  warrior-hands 
Against  the  Golden  City  of  the  sea. 
—Oh  I  for  a  soul  to  fire  thy  dust,  Ther- 
mopylae 1 

VII. 

Hear  yet  again,  ye  mighty  !    Where  are 

they  [crowned, 

Who,  with  their  green  Olympic  garlands 
Leaped  up  in  proudly  beautiful  array, 
As  to  a  banquet  gathering,  at  the  sound 
Of  Persia's-  clarion  ?  Far  and  joyous  round, 
From   the  pine  forests  and  the  mountain 

snows 

And  the  low  sylvan  valleys,  to  the  bound 
Of  the  bright  waves,  at  freedom's  voice 

they  rose  I 
Hath  it  no  thrilling   tone  to  break  the 

tomb's  repose  ? 


VIII. 

They  slumber  with  their   swords  ! — The 

olive  shades 

In  vain  are  whispering  their  immortal  tale  ; 
In  vain  the  spirit  of  the  past  pervades 
The  soft  winds,   breathing  through  each 
Grecian  vale.  [and  pale, 

Yet  must  thou  wake,  though  all  unarmed 
Devoted  City  1  Lo  !  the  Moslem's  spear, 
Red  from  its  vintage,  at  thy  gates  ;  his  sail 
Upon  thy  waves,  his  trumpet  in  thine  ear ! — 
Awake  1  and  summon  those  who  yet  per- 
chance may  hear. 


Be  hushed,  thou  faint  and  feeble  voice  of 

weeping ! 

Lift  ye  the  banner  of  the  Cross  on  high, 
Apd  call  on  chiefs,  whose  noble  sires  are 

sleeping 

In  their  proud  graves  of  sainted  chivalry, 
Beneath  the  palms  and  cedars,  where  they 

sigh  [line 

To  Syrian  gales  1    The  sons  of  each  brave 
From  their  baronial  halls  shall  hear  your 

cry,  [Salem's  shrine, 

And  seize  the  arms  which  flashed  round- 
Aad  wield  for  you  the  swords  once  waved 

for  Palestine. 

x. 

All  still,  all  voiceless ! — and  the  billow's  roai 
Alone  replies  !    Alike  their  soul  is  gone 
Who  shared  the  funeral  feast  on  (Eta's 

shore, 

And  theirs  that  o'er  the  field  of  Ascalon 
Swelled  the  Crusaders'  hymn  1    Then  gird 

thou  on  [the  hour 

Thine  armour,  Eastern  Queen  I  and  meet 
Which  waits  thee  ere  the  day's  fierce  work 

is  done  [tower 

With  a  strong  heart :  so  may  thy  helmet 
Unshivered  through  the  storm,  for  generous 

hope  is  power  ! 

XI. 

But  linger  not, — array  thy  men  of  might ! 
The  shores,  the  seas,  are  peopled  with  thy 

foes. 
Arms    through    thy    cypress    groves    are 

gleaming  bright, 

And  the  dark  huntsmen  of  the  wild  repose 
Beneath  the  shadowing  marble  porticoes 
Of  thy  proud  villas.    N  earer  and  more  near, 
Around  thy  walls  the  sons  of  battle  close  ; 
Each  hour,  each  moment,  hath  its  sound 

of  fear,  [not  to  hear. 

Which  the  deep  grave  alone  is  chartered 


THE  LAST  CONSTANTINE. 


Away!  bring  wine,  bring  odours  to  the 

shade  [high ! 

Where  (he  tall  pine  and  poplar  bend  on 
Bring  roses,  exquisite,  but  soon  to  fade  I 
Snatch  every  brief  delight, — since  we  must 

die! 

Yet  is  the  hour,  degenerate  Greeks!  gone  by, 
For  feast  in  vine-wreathed  bower  or  pillared 

hall ;  [sky, 

Dim  gleams  the  torch  beneath  yon  fiery 
And  deep  and  hollow  is  the  tambour's  call, 
And  from  the  startled  hand  th'  untested 

cup  will  fall. 

XIII. 

The  night — the  glorious  Oriental  night 
Hath  lost  the  silence  of  her  purple  heaven, 
With  its  clear  stars.     The  red  artillery's 
light,  [driven, 

Athwart  her  worlds  of  tranquil  splendour 
To  the  still  firmament's  expanse  had  given 
Its  own  fierce  glare,  wherein  each  cliff  and 

tower 

Starts  wildly  forth ;  and  now  the  air  is  riven 
With  thunder-bursts,  and  now  dull  smoke- 
clouds  lour, 

Veiling  the  gentle  moon  in  her  most  hal- 
lowed hour. 

XIV. 

Sounds  from  the  waters,  sounds  upon  the 

earth,  [these 

Sounds  in  the  air,  of  battle !  Yet  with 
A  voice  is  mingling,  whose  deep  tones  give 

birth 

To  faith  and  courage.   From  lujoirious  case 
A  gallant  few  have  started.   O'er  the  seas, 
From  the  Seven  Towers,  their  banner  waves 

its  sign ; 

And  hope  is  whispering  in  the  joyous  breeze, 
Which  plays  amidst  its  folds.  That  voice 

was  thine —  [stantine ! 

Thy  soul  was  on  that  band,  devoted  Con- 

XV. 

Was  Rome  thy  parent  ?    Didst  thou  catch 

from  her 

The  fire  that  lives  in  thine  undaunted  eye? 
That  city  of  the  throne  and  sepulchre  [die. 
Hath  given  proud  lessons  how  to  reign  and 
Heir  of  the  Caesars  I  did  that  lineage  high, 
Which,  as  a  triumph  to  the  grave,  hath 

passed, 

With  its  long  march  of  spectred  imagery, 
The  heroic  mantle  o'er  thy  spirit  cast  ? 
Thou  of  an  eagle  race  the  noblest  and  the 

last! 


XVI. 

Vain  dreams  I    Upon  that  spirit  hath  de- 
scended [each  thought 
Light  from  the  living  Fountain,  whence 
Springs  pure  and  holy.     In  that  eye  is 

blended 
A  spark,  with  earth's  triumphal  memories 

fraught 

And,  far  within,  a  deeper  meaning,  caught 

From  worlds  unseen.  A  hope,  a  lofty  trust, 

Whose  resting-place  on  buoyant  wind  is 

sought  [the  dust) 

(Though  through  its  veil  seen  darkly  from 

In  realms  where  Time  no  more  hath  power 

upon  the  just. 

XVII. 

Those  were  proud   days,  when  on  the 

battle-plain,  [array 

And  in  the  sun's  bright  face,  and  'midst  th' 

Of  awe-struck  hosts,  and  circled  by  the  slain, 

The  Roman  cast  his  glittering  mail  away, 

And  while  a  silence  as  of  midnight  lay 

O'er  breathless  thousands  at  his  voice  who 

started,  [sway 

Called  on  the  unseen  terrific  powers  that 

The  heights,  the  depths,  the  shades  ;  then 

fearless-hearted  [departed. 

Girt  on  his  robe  of  death,  and  for  the  grave 

XVIII. 

But  then,  around  him  as  the  javelins  rushed. 
From  earth  to  heaven  swelled  up  the  loud 

acclaim ; 

And,  ere  his  heart's  last  free  libation  gushed, 
With  a  bright  smile  the  warrior  caught  his 

name  Tcame, 

Far-floating  on  the  winds !    And  Victory 
And  made  the  hour  of  that  immortal  deed 
A  life,  in  fiery  feeling.    Valour's  aim 
Had  sought  no  loftier  guerdon.    Thus  to 

bleed  [and  had  his  meed. 

Was  to  be  Rome's  high  star.    He  died— 

XIX. 

But  praise— and  dearer,  holier  praise  be 

theirs, 

Who,  in  the  stillness  and  the  solitude 
Of  hearts  pressed  earthwards  by  a  weight  of 

cares,  [real  food 

Uncheered  by  Fame's  proud  hope,  hisethe- 
Of  restless  energies,  and  only  viewed 
By  Him  whose  eye,  from  his  eternal  throne, 
Is  on  the  soul's  dark  places — have  subdued 
And  vowed  themselves,  widi  strength  till 

then  unknown,  [alone. 

To  some  high  martyr-task,  in  secret  and 


THE  LAST  CONSTANTINE. 


xx 

Theirs  be  the  bright  and  sacred  names,  en- 
shrined 

Far  in  the  bosom  I  For  their  deeds  belong, 
Not  to  the  gorgeous  faith  which  charmed 

mankind 

With  its  rich  pomp  of  festival  and  song, 
Garland,  and  shrine,  and  incense-bearing 

throng ; 

But  to  that  Spirit,  hallowing,  as  it  tries 
Man's  hidden  soul  in  whispers,  yet  more 
strong  [thence  arise 

Than  storm  or  earthquake's  voice ;  for 
All  that  mysterious  world's  unseen  sub- 
limities. 

XXI. 

Well  might  thy  name,  brave  Constantino  1 
/  awake  [again 

Such  thought,  such  feeling !— But  the  scene 
Bursts  on  my  vision,  as  the  day-beams  break 
Through  the  red  sulphurous  mists:  the 

camp,  the  plain, 

The  terraced  palaces,  the  dome-capt  fane, 
With  its  bright  cross  fixed  high  in  crowning 

grace; 

Spears  on  the  ramparts,  galleys  on  the  main, 
And,  circling  all  with  arms,  that  turbaned 

race —  [haughty  face. 

The  sun,  the  desert,  stamped  in  each  dark 

XXII. 

Shout,  ye  seven  hills  I    Lo !  Christian  pen- 
nons streaming  [hail  1 
Red  o'er  the  waters  1     Hail,   deliverers, 
Along  your  billowy  wake  the  radiance 
gleaming                              [ing  sail- 
In  Hope's  own  smile.  They  crowd  the  swell- 
On  with  the  foam,  the  sunbeam,  and  the 
gale,  [pour 
Borne   as  a  victor's  car !     The  batteries 
Their  clouds  and  thunders  ;  but  the  rolling 
veil                                              [fore ; 
Of  smoke  floats  up  the  exulting  winds  be- 
And  oh  !  the  glorious  bur^t  of  that  bright 
sea  and  shore  1 

XXIII. 

The   rocks,    waves,    ramparts,  Europe's, 

Asia's  coast, 

All  thronged,  one  theatre  for  kingly  war  1 
A  monarch,  girt  with  his  barbaric  host. 
Points  o'er  the  beach  his  flashing  scimitar. 
Dark  tribes  are  tossing  javelins  from  afar, 
Hands   waving  banners  o'er  each  battle- 
ment, [bar 
Decks  with  their  serried  guns  arrayed  to 


The  promised  aid :  but  hark  1  a  shout  is 

sent  [is  rent  1 

Up  from  the  noble  barks;— the  Moslem  line 

XXIV. 

On,  on  through  rushing  flame  and  arrowy 

shower  [way ; 

The  welcome  prows  have  cleft  their  rapid 
And,  with  (he  shadows  of  the  vesper  hour, 
Furled  their  white  sails  and  anchored  in  the 

bay.  [fire  gay, 

Then  were  the  streets  with  song  and  torch- 
Then  the  Greek  wines  flowed  mantling  in 

the  light 

Of  festal  halls  ;  and  there  was  joy — the  ray 
Of  dying  eyes,  a  moment  wildly  bright — 
The  sunset  of  the  soul,  ere  lost  to  mortal 

sight, 

XXV. 

For  vain  that  feeble  succour !  Day  by  day 
The  imperial  towers  are  crumbling,  and  the 

sweep 

Of  the  vast  engines  in  their  ceaseless  play  - 
Comes  powerful,  as  when  heaven  unbinds 
-the  deep.  [steep, 

Man's  heart  is  mightier  than  the  castled 
Yet  will  it  sink  when  earthly  hope  is  fled  ; 
Man's  thoughts  work  darkly  in  such  hours, 

and  sleep  [tread, 

Flies  far  ;  and  in  their  mien,  the  walls  who 
Things  by  the  brave  untold  'may  fearfully 

be  read. 

XXVI. 

It  was  a  sad  and  solemn  task,  to  hold 
Their  midnight  watch  on  that  beleaguered 

wall! 

As  the  sea-wave  beneath  the  bastions  rolled, 
A  sound  of  fate  was  in  its  rise  and  fall ; 
The  heavy  clouds  were  as  an  empire's  pall, 
The  giant  shadows  of  each  tower  and  fane 
Lay  like  the  graves ;  a  low  mysterious  call 
Breathed  in  the  wind,  and  from  the  tented 

plain  [strain. 

A  voice  of  omens  rose  with  each  wild  martial 

XXVII. 

For  they  might  catch  the  Arab  chargers 

neighing,  [song ; 

The  Thracian  drum,  the  Tartar's  drowsy 

Might  almost  hear  the  Soldan's  banner 

swaying,  [tongue. 

The  %vatchword  muttered  in  some  Eastern 

Then  flashed  the  gun's  terrific  light  along 

The  marble  streets,  all  stillness— not  repose ; 

And  boding  thoughts  came  o  er  i'n<-.— ,  Hark 

and  strong ; 


224 


THE  LAST  CONSTANTINO. 


For  heaven,  earth,  air,  speak  auguries  to 

those 
Who  see  their  numbered  hours  fast  pressing 

to  the  close. 

XXVHI. 

But  strength  is  from  the  Mightiest  I  There 

'    is  one 

Still  in  the  breach  and  on  the  rampart  seen, 
Whose  cheek  shows  paler  with  each  morn- 
ing sun, 

And  tells  in  silence  how  the  night  hath  been 
In  kingly  halls  a  vigil.     Yet  serene 
The  ray  set  deep  within  his  thoughtful  eye  ; 
And  there  is  that  in  his  collected  mien, 
To  which  the  hearts  of  noble  men  reply 
With  fires,  partaking  not  this  frame's  mor- 
tality. 

XXIX. 

Yes  !  call  it  not  of  lofty  minds  the  fate 
To  pass  o'er  earth  in  brightness  but  alone  : 
High  power  was  made  their  birthright,  to 

create 

A  thousand  thoughts  responsive  to  their  own ! 
A  thousand  echoes  of  their  spirit's  tone 
Starts  into  life,  where'er  their  path  maybe, 
Still  following  fast ;  as  when  the  wind  hath 

blown  [free, 

O'er  Indian  groves,  a  wanderer  wild  and 
Kindling  and  bearing  flames  afar  from  tree 

to  tree. 

XXX. 

And  it  is  thus  with  thee  I— Thy  lot  is  cast 
On  evil  days,  thou  Caesar.    Yet  the  few, 
That  set  their  generous  bosom  to  the  blast 
Which  rocks  thy  throne — the  fearless  and 

the  true,  [renew 

Bear  hearts  wherein  thy  glance  can  still 
The  free  devotion  of  the  years  gone  by, 
When  from  bright  dreams  the  ascendant 

Roman  drew 

Enduring  strength  I  States  vanish,  ages  fly, 
But  leave  one  task  unchanged — to  suffer 

and  to  die. 

XXXI. 

These  are  our  nature's  heritage.     But  thou, 
The  crowned  with  empire  1  thou  wert  called 

to  share 

A  cup  more  bitter  ; — on  thy  fevered  brow 
The  semblance  of  that  buoyant  hope  to  wear, 
Which  long  had  passed  away ;  alone  to  bear 
The  rush  and  pressure  of  dark  thoughts, 

that  came 

As  a  strong  billow  in  their  weight  of  care  ; 
And  with  all  this  to  smile  I  For  earth-born 

frame  [known  to  Fame. 

These  are  stern  conflicts,  yet  they  pass  un- 


xxxn. 

Her  glance  is  on  the  triumph,  on  the  field, 
On  the  red  scaffold ;  and  where'er,  in  sight 
Of  human  eyes,  the  human  soul  is  steeled 
To  deeds  that  seem  as  of  immortal  might, 
Yet  are  proud  Nature's.    But  her  meteor- 
light 
Can  pierce  no  depths,  no  clouds ;  it  falls  not 

where 

In  silence,  and  in  secret,  and  in  night, 
The  noble  heart  doth  wrestle  with  despair, 
And  rise  more  strong  than  death  from  its 
unwitnessed  prayer. 


Men  have  been  firm  in  battle ;  they  have 

stood 

With  a  prevailing  -hope  on  ravaged  plains, 
And  won  the  birthright  of  their  hearths  with 

blood, 

And  died  rejoicing 'midst  theirancient  fanes, 
That  so  their  children,  undefiled  with  chains, 
Might  worship  there  in  peace.  But  they 

that  stand 

When  not  a  beacon  o'er  the  wave  remains, 
Linked  but  to  perish  with  a  ruined  land, 
Where  freedom  dies  with  them — call  these 

a  martyr-band. 


But  the  world  heeds  them  not.    Or  if,  per- 
chance, 

Upon  their  strife  it  bend  a  careless  eye. 
It  is  but  as  the  Roman's  stoic  glance 
Fell  on  that  stage  where  man's  last  agony 
Was  made  his  sport,  who,  knowing  one 
must  die,  [the  strain. 

Recked  not  which  champion  ;  but  prepared 
And  bound  the  bloody  wreath  of  victory 
To  greet  the  conqueror ;  while,  with  calm 

disdain, 

The  vanquished  proudly  met  the  doom  he 
met  in  vain. 

XXXV. 

The  hour  of  Fate  comes  on  ;  and  it  is  fraught 
With  this  of  liberty — that  now  the  need 
Is  past  to  veil  the  brow  of  anxious  thought, 
And  clothe  the  heart,  which  still  beneath 

must  bleed,  [freed 

With  Hope's  fair-seemiag  drapery.  We  are 
From  tasks  like  these  by  misery.  One  alone 
Is  left  the  brave ;  and  rest  shall  be  thy  meed, 
Prince,  watcher,  wearied  one  1  when  thou 

bast  shown 
How  brief  the  cloudy  space  which  parts 

the  grave  and  throne. 


THE  LAST  CONSTANTINE. 


225 


XXXVI. 

The  signs  are  full.  They  are  not  in  the  sky, 

Nor  in  the  many  voices  of  the  air, 

Nor  the  swift  clouds.    No  fiery  hosts  on 

high  [glare ; 

Toss  their  wild  spears  ;  no  meteor  banners 
No  comet  fiercely  shakes  its  blazing  hair. 
And  yet  the  signs  are  full :  too  truly  seen 
In  the  thinned  ramparts,  in  the  pale  despair 
Which  lends  one  language  to  a  people's  mien, 
And  in  the  ruined  heaps  where  wall  and 

towers  have  been. 

XXXVII. 

It  is  A  night  oi  beauty :  such  a  night 
As  from  the  sparry  grot  or  laurel-shade, 
Or  wave  in  marbled  cavern  rippling  bright, 
Might  woo  the  nymphs  of  Grecian  fount 

and  glade  [pervade 

To  sport  beneath  Its  moonbeams,  which 
Their  forest  haunts  :  a  night  to  rove  alone 
Where  the  young,  leaves  by  vernal  winds 

are  swayed, 

And  the  reeds  whisper  with  a  dreamy  tone 
Of  melody  that  seems  to  breathe  from 

worlds  unknown. 


A  night  to  tall  from  green  Elysium's  bowers 
The  shades  of  elder  bards ;  a  night  to  hold 
Unseen  communion  with  the  inspiring 

powers  [place  of  old  ; 

.That  made  deep  groves  their  dwelling- 
A  night  for  mourners  o'er  the  hallowed 

mould 

To  strew  sweet  flowers — for  revellers  to  fill 
And  wreathe  the  cup — for  sorrows  to  be 

told 
Which  love  hath  cherished  long.     Vain 

thoughts,  be  still  t 
It  is  a  night  of  fate,  stamped  with  Almighty 

Will* 

XXXIX. 

It  should  come  sweeping  in  the  storm,  and 

rending 

The  ancient  summits  in  its  dread  career  j^ 
And  with  vast  billows  wrathfully  con  tending, 
And  with  dark  clouds  o'ershadowing  every 

sphere.  [with  fear, 

But  He,  whose  footstep  shakes  the  earth 
Passing  to  lay  the  sovereign  cities  low, 
Alike  in  his  omnipotence  is  near 
When  the  soft  winds  o'er  'Spring's  green 

pathway  blow, 

ft^d  when  his  thunders  cleave  the'-nnocarch- 
' 


XL. 

The  heavens  in  still  magnificence  look  down 
On  the  hushed  Bosphorus,  whose  ocean- 
stream 

Sleeps  with  its  paler  stars  :  the  snowy  crown 

Of  far  Olympus  in  the  moonlight  gleam 

Towers  radiantly,   as  when  the  Pagan's 

dream  [knee. 

Thronged  it  with  gods,  and  bent  the  adoring 

But  that  is  past — and  now  the  One  Supreme 

Fills  not  alone  those  haunts,  but  earth,  air, 

sea,  [decree. 

And  Time,  which  presses  on  to  finish  His 

XLI. 

Olympus,  Ida,  Delphi  !  ye,  the  thrones 
And  temples  of  a  visionary  might, 
Brooding  in  clouds  above  your  forest  zones, 
And  mantling  thence  the  realms  beneath 

with  night ;  [and .Flight, 

Ye  have  looked  down  on  battles— Fear 
And  armed    Revenge,  all  hurrying   past 

below. — 

But  there  is  yet  a  more  appalling  sight 
For  earth,  prepared,  than  e'er  with  tranquil 

brow  [and  snow. 

Ye  gazed  on  from  your  world  of  solitude 

XLH. 

Last  night  a  sound  was  in  the  Moslem 

camp, 

And  Asia's  hills  re-echoed  to  a  cry 
Of  savage  mirth.    Wild  horn  and  war- 
steeds'  tramp 

Blent  with  the  shout  of  barbarous  revelry, 
A  hue  of  menace  and  of  wrath  put  on, 
Caught  from  red  watch-fires,  blazing  far 

and  high, 

And  countless  as  the  flames  in  ages  gone, 
Streaming  to  heaven's  bright  queen  from 
shadowy  Lebanon. 

XLIII. 

But  all  is  stillness  now.  May  this  be  sleep 
Which  wraps  those  Eastern  thousands? 

Yes  !  perchance  [deep, 

Along  yon  moonlit  shore  and  dark-blue 
Bright  are  their  visions  with  the  Houri's 

glance,  [dance. 

And  they  behold  the  sparkling  fountains 
Beneath  the  bowers  of  paradise  that  shed  i 
Rich  odours  o'er  the  Faithful;  but  the 

Jance,  [berers  spread,  : 

The  bow,  the  spear,  now  round  the  slum- 
Ere  Fate  fulfil  such  dreams,  must  rest 

be^icte  the  dead, 


THE  LAST  COKtiTAKTINE. 


XLIV. 

May  this  be  sleep,  Uiis  hush  ?    A  sleepless 

eye 

Doth  hold  its  vigil  'midst  that  dusky  race  : 
One  that  would  scan  the  abyss  of  destiny 
Even  now  is  gazing  on  the  ski-as  to  trace 
In  those  bright  worlds,  the  burning  isles  of 

space,  [serene. 

Fate's  mystic  pathway.     They  the  while, 
Walk  in  their  beauty  ;  but   Mohammed's 

face 

Kindles  beneath  their  aspect,  and  his  mien 
All  fired  with  stormy  joy  by  that  soft  light 

is  seen. 

XLV. 

Oh  1   wild  presumption  of  a  conqueror's 

dream, 

To  gaze  on  those  pure  altar-fires,  enshrined 
In  depths  of  blue  infinitude,  and  deem 
They  shine  to  guide  the  spoiler  of  mankind 
O'er  fields  of  blood  1  But  with  the  restless 

mind 

It  hath  been  ever  thus  ;  and  they  that  weep 
For  worlds  to  conquer,  o'er  the  bounds  as- 
signed [sweep 
To  human  search  in  daring  pride  would 
As  o'er  the  trampled  dust  wherein  they  soon 
must  sleep. 

XLVI. 

But  ye  that  beamed  on  Fate's  tremendous 

night. 

When  the  storm  burst  o  er  golden  Babylon  : 
And  ye  that  sparkled  with  your  wonted  light 
O'er  burning  Salem,  by  the  Roman  won  ; 
And  ye  that  calmly  viewed  the  slaughter 

done  [trumpet-blast 

In  Rome's  own  streets,  when  Alaric's 
Rang  through  the  Capitol :  bright  spheres ! 

roll  on  1  [man  cast 

Still  bright,  though  empires  fall ;  and  bid 
His  humbled  eyes  to  earth,  and  commune 

with  the  past. 

XLVII. 

For  it  hath  mighty  lessons.  From  the  tomb, 
And  from  the  ruins  of  the  tomb,  and  where, 
Midst  the  wrecked  cities  in  the  desert's 

gloom,  [lair, 

All  tameless  creatures  make  Iheir.  savage 
Thence  comes  its  voice,  that  shakes  the 

midnight  air,  [day, 

And  calls  up  clouds  to  dim  the  laughing 
And  thrills  the  soul ; — yet  bids  us  not 

despair,  [stay. 

But  make  one  Rock  OUT  shelter  and  our 
Beneath  whose  shade  all  f  Ise  is  passing  to 

decay. 


The  hours  move   on.     I  see  a  wavering 

gleam 

O'er  the  hushed  waters  tremulously  fall. 
Poured  from  the  Caesars'  palace.    Now  the 

beam 

Of  many  lamps  is  brightening  in  the  hall, 
And  from  its  long  arcades  and  pillars  tall 
Soft  graceful  shadows  undulating  lie 
On  the  wave's  heaving  bosom,  and  recall 
A  thought  of  Venice,  with  her  moonlight 

sky,  [pageantry. 

And    festal   seas   and   domes,  and  fairy 

XL1X. 

But  from  that  dwelling  floats  no  mirthful 

sound. 

The  swell  of  flute  and  Grecian  lyre  no  more, 
Wafting  an  atmosphere  of  music  round, 
Tell  the  hushed  seaman,  gliding  past  .the 

shore.  [o'er— 

How  monarchs  revel  there.    Its  feasts  are 
Why  gleam  the  lights  aVong  its  colonnade? 
I  see  a  train  of  guests  in  silence  pour 
Through  its  long  avenues  of  terraced  shade, 
Whose  stately  founts  and  bowers  for  joy 

alone  were  made. 


la  silence  and  in  arms  .'—with  helm,  with 

sword  1  [now 

These  are  no  marriage  garments.  Yet  even 
Thy  nuptial  feast  should  grace  the  regal 

board, 
Thy  Georgian    bride  should  wreathe  her 

'lovely  brow 

With  an  imperial  diadem.     But  thou, 
O  fated  prince  I  art  called,  and  these  with 

thee,  [to  bow 

To  darker  scenes  ;  and  thou  hast  learned 
Thine  Eastern  sceptre  to  the  dread  decree, 
And  count  it  joy  enough  to  perish,  being 

free. 

LI. 

On  through  long  vestibules,  with  solemn 

trea'd, 

As  men  that  in  some  time  of  fear  and  woe 
Bear  darkly  to  their  rest  the  noble  dead  ; 
O'er  whom  by  day  their  sorrows  may  not 

flow,  [are  slow, 

The  warriors  pass.    Their  measured  steps 
And  hollow  echoes  fill  the  marble  halls, 
Whose  long-drawn  vistas  open  as  they  go 
In  desolate  pomp ;  and  from  the  pictured 

walls,  [armour  falls. 

Sad  seems  the  light  itself  wbicb  on  then 


THE  LAST  GON8TANTJNB. 


227 


LII. 

And  they  have  reached  a  gorgeous  chamber, 
bright  [gloom 

With  all  we  dream  of  splendour :  yet  a 
Seems  gathered  o'er  it  to  the  boding  sight, 
A  shadow  that  anticipates  the  tomb. 
'  Still  from  its  fretted  roof  the  lamps  illume 
A  purple  canopy,  a  golden  throne ; 
But  it  is  empty ; — hath  the  stroke  of  doom 
Fallen  there  already?  Where  is  he,  the  one, 
Born  that  high  seat  (o  fill,  supremely  and 
alone? 

LIII. 

Oh  I  there  are  times  whose  pressure  doth 

efface  [beats  loud, 

Earth's  vain  distinctions, — when  the  storm 
When  the  strong  towers  are  tottering  to  the 

base,  [crowd  ? 

And  the  streets  rock.  Who  mingle  in  the 
Peasant  and  chief,  the  lowly  and  the  proud, 
Are  in  that  throng.  Yes,  life  hath  many  an 

hour  [bowed, 

Which  make  us  kindred,  by  one  chastening 
And  feeling  but,  as  from  the  storm  we 

cower,  [bounded  power. 

What  shrinking  weakness  feels  before  un- 

tlT. 

Vet  then  that  Power  whose  dwelling  is  on 

high, 

Its  loftiest  marvels  doth  reveal,  and  speak 
In  the  deep  human  hea#  more  gloriously 
Than  in  the  bursting  thunder.  Thence  the 

weak, 
They  that  seemed  formed  as  flower-stems 

but  to  break 
With  the  first  wind,  have  risen  to  deeds 

whose  name  [cheek 

Still  calls  up  thoughts  that  mantle  to  the 
And  thrill  the  pulse.  Ay,  strength  no  pangs 

could  tame  [sword  and  flame. 

Hath  looked  from  woman's  eye  upon  the 

tv. 

And  tb  is  is  of  such  hours  I    That  throne  is 

void,  [him  stand 

And  its  lord  comes  uncrowned.     Behold 

With  a  calm  brow,  where  woes  have  not 

destroyed 

The  Greek's  heroic  beauty,  'midst  his  band, 
The  gathered  virtue  of  a  sinking  land — 
Alas !  how  scanty  I    Now  is  cast  aside 
All  form  of  princely  state ;  each  noble  hand 
Is  pressed  by  turns  in  his :  for  earthly  pride 
There  is  no  room  in  hearts  where  earthly 
hope  batb  died, 


LVI. 

A  moment's  hush  —  and  then  he  speaks. 

He  speaks  I  [gone  by  t 

But  not  of  hope  —  that  dream  hath  long 
His  words  are  full  of  memory  —  as  he  seeks 
By  the  strong  name  of  Rome  and  Liberty, 
Which  yet  are  living  powers  that  fire  the  eya 
And  rouse  the  heart  of  manhood,  and  by  all 
The  sad  but  grand  remembrances  that  lie 
Deep  with  earth's  buried  heroes,  to  recall 
The  soul  of  other  years,  if  but  to  grace  their 

fall. 

LVII. 

His  words  are  full  of  faith  :  and  thoughts 

more  high  [with  light  ; 

Than  Rome  e'er  knew  now  fill  his  glance 
Thoughts  which  give  nobler  lessons  how  to 

die,  [haughty  might. 

Than    e'er   were    drawn    from    Nature'g 
And  to  that  eye,  with  all  the  spirit  bright, 
Have  theirs  replied,  in  tears  which  may  not 

shame 

The  bravest  in  such  moments.  'Tis  a  sight 
To  make  all  earthly  splendours  cold  and 

tame,  [flame. 

That  generous  burst  of  soul,  with  its  electric 

LVNI. 

They  weep,  those  champions  of  the  Cross  — 
they  weep,  [that  train 

Yet  vow  themselves  to  death.    Ay,  'midst 
Are  martyrs,  privileged  in  tears  to  steep 
Their  lofty  sacrifice.    The  pang  is  vain, 
And  yet  its  gush  of  sorrow  shall  not  stain 
A  warrior's  sword.  Those  men  are  strangers 

here  : 

The  homes  they  never  may  behold  again 
Lie  far  away,  with  all  things  blest  and  dear 
Oh  laughing  shores,  to  which  their  barks 
no  more  shall  steer. 


Know'st  thou  the  land  where  bloom  the 

orange  bowers  ? 
Where  through  dark  foliage  gleam  the 

citron's  dyes  ? 
—  It  is  their  own.    They  see  their  father's 

towers 

'Midst  its  Hesperian  groves  in  sunlight  rise  : 
They  meet  in  soul,  the  bright  Italian  eyes 
Which  long  and  vainly  shall  explore  the 

main 

For  their  white  sails'  return  :  the  melodies 
Of  that  sweet  land  are  floating  o'er  their 

brain  :  [may  contain  1 

Obi  what  9  crowded  world  one  moment 


228 


THE  LAST  CONSTANTINO. 


IOC. 

Such  moments  come  to  thousands.     Few 

i  nay  die  [brave, 

Amid  st  their  native  shades.  The  young,  the 
The  b  eautiful,  whose  gladdening  voice  and 

eye 

Made  summer  in  a  parent's  heart,  and  gave 
Light  to  their  peopled  homes ;  o'er  land 

an  d  wave  [fall 

Are  scattered  fast  and  far,  as  rose-leaves 
From  the  deserted  stem.  They  find  a  grave 
Far  from  the  shadow  of  the  ancestral  hall : 
A  lonely  bed  is  theirs,  whose  smiles  were 

hope  to  all. 

LXI. 

But  life  flows  on,  and  bears  us  with  its  tide, 
Nor  may  we  lingering  by  the  slumberers 

dwell,  [our  side 

Though  they  were  those  once  blooming  at 
In  youth's  gay  home.  Awayl  what  sound's 

deep  swell 

Comes  on  the  wind? — It  is  an  empire's  knell, 
Slow,  sad,  majestic,  pealing  through  the 

night.  [bell 

For  the  last  time  speaks  forth  the  solemn 
Which  calls  the  Christians  to  their  holiest 

rite. 
With  a  funereal  voice  of  solitary  might. 

LXIl. 

Again,  and  yet  again  I  A  startling  power 
In  sounds  like  these  lives  ever ;  for  they 

bear 

Full  on  remembrance  each  eventful  hour 
Checkering  life's  crowded  path.    Tfiey  fill 

the  air  [wear 

When  conquerors  pass,  and  fearful  cities 
A  mien  like  joy's  ;  and  when  young  brides 

are  led  [glare 

From  their  paternal  homes ;  and  when  the 
Of  burning  streets  on  midnight's  cloud 

waves  red,  [~l^e  dead. 

And  when  the  silent  house  receives  its  guest 


But  to  those  tones  what  thrilling  soul  was 

given 

On  that  last  night  of  empire  I  As  a  spell 
Whereby  the  life-blood  to  its  source  is  driven, 
On  the  chilled  heart  of  multitudes  they  fell. 
Each  cadence  seemed  a  prophecy,  to  tell 
Of  sceptres  passing  from  the  line  away. 
An  angel-watcher's  long  and  sad  farewell, 
The  requiem  of  a  faith's  departing  sway, 
A  throne's,  a  nation's  diige,  a  wail  for  earth's 

decay. 


Lxrv. 

Again,  and  yet  again !     From   yon  high 

dome, 

Still  the  slow  peal  comes  awfully^  and  they 
Who  never  more,  to  rest  in  mortal  home, 
Shall  throw  the  breastplate  off  at  fall  of  day, 
The  imperialband,  in  close  and  armed  array, 
As  men  that  from  the  sword  must  part  no 

more,  [silent  way, 

Take  through  the  midnight  streets  their 
Within  their  ancient  temple  to  adore, 
Ere  yet  its  thousand  years  of  Christian  pomp 


are  o  er. 


LXV. 


It  is  the  hour  of  sleep :  yet  few  the  eyes 
O'er  which  forgetfulness  her  balm  hath  shed 
In  the  beleaguered  city.    Stillness  lies, 
With  moonlight,  o'er  the  hills  and  waters 
spread ;  [dread 

But  not  the  less  with  signs  and  sounds  of 
The  time  speeds  on.    No  voice  is  raised  to 
greet  [tread 

The  last  brave  Constantino ;  and  yet  the 
Of  many  steps  is  in  the. echoing  street, 
And  pressure  of  pale  crowds,  scarce  con- 
scious why  they  meet. 


Their  homes  are  luxury's  yet :  why  pour 

they  thence 

With  a  dim  terror  in  each  restless  eye  ? 
Hath  the  dread  car  which  bears  the  pesti- 
lence, [by, 
In  darkness,  with  its  heavy  wheels  rolled 
And  rocked  their  palaces,  as  if  on  high 
The  whirlwind  passed  ?    From  couch  and 
joyous  board                                   [die  ? 
Hath  the  fierce  .phantom  beckoned  them  to 
No  1 — what  are  these  ?    For  them  a  cup  is 
poured               [spoiler  and  the  sword. 
More  dark  than  wrath.    Man  comes — the 


Still,  as  the  monarch  and  his  chieftains  pass 
Through  those  pale  throngs,  the  streaming 

torchlight  throws 

On  some  wild  form  amidst  the  living  mass 
Hues  deeply  red  like  lava's,  which  disclose 
What  countless  shapes  are  worn  by  mortal 

woes.  [clasped  in  prayer. 

Lips  bloodless-,  quivering  limbs,  hands 
Starts,  tremblings,  hurryings,  tears;  all 

outward  shows 

Betokening  inward  agonies,  were  there : 
Greeks  1  Romans  1  all  but  such  as  image  • 

brave  despair. 


THE  LAST  CONSTANTINE. 


229 


LXVIII. 

But  high  above  that  scene,  in  bright  re- 
pose, [gleams 
And  beauty  borrowing  from  the  torches' 
A  mien  of  life,  yet  where  no  life-blood  flows, 
But  all  instinct  with  loftier  being  seems, 
Pale,  grand,  colossal  1   lo  I   th^  embodied 
dreams                                   '[wrought, 
Of  yore  ! — Gods,  heroes,  bards,  in  marble 
Look  down,  as  powers,  upon  the  wild  ex- 
tremes                                       [caught, 
Of   mortal  passion.     Yet  'twas  man  that 
And  in  each  glorious  form  enshrined  im- 
mortal thought. 

LXIX. 

Stood  ye  not  thus  amidst  the  streets  of 

Rome —  [days, 

That  Rome  which  witnessed,  in  her  sceptred 
So  much  of  noble  death?    When  shrine 

and  dome  [lays, 

'Midst  clouds  of  incense  rang  with  choral 
As  the  long  triumphs  passed,  with  all  its 

blaze 

Of  regal  spoil,  were  ye  not  proudly  borne, 
O  sovereign  forms  1  concentring  all  the  rays 
Of  the  soul's  lightnings  ? — did  ye  not  adorn 
The  pomp  which  earth  stood  still  to  gaze 

on,  and  to  mourn  ? 

LXX. 

Hath  it  been  thus?    Or  did  ye  grace  the 

halls 

Once  peopled  by  the  Mighty?  Haply  there, 
In  your  still  grandeur,  from  the  pillared 

walls 

Strene  ye  smiled  on  banquets  of  despair, 
Where  hopeless  courage  wrought  itself  to 

dare  [glow 

The  stroke  of  its  deliverance,  'midst  the 
Of  living  wreaths,  the  sighs  of  permraed 

air,  [goblet's  flow, 

The  sound  of  lyres,   the  flower-crowned 
Behold  again  ! — high  hearts  make  nobler 

offerings  now. 

LXXT. 

The  stately  fane  is  reached,  and  at  its  gate 
The  warriors  pause.    On  life's  tumultuous 

tide" 

A  stillness  falls,  while  he  whom  regal  state 
Hath  marked  from  all  to  be  more  sternly 

tried  [hath  died, 

By  suffering,  speaks.    Each  ruder  voice 
While  his  implores  forgiveness. — "  If  there 

be  [in  pridt 

One  'midst  your  throngs,  my  people  !  whom 


Or  passion  I  have  wronged  ;  such  pardon 

free  [man  to  me  I" 

As  mortal  hope  from  heaven,  accord  that 

LXXII 

But  all  is  silence  ;  and  a  gush  of  tears 
Alone  replies.     He  hath  not  been  of  those 
Who,  feared  by  many,  pine  in  secret  fears 
Of  all ;    th'  environed  but  by  slaves  and 
foes,  [repose, 

To  whom  day  brings  not   safety,    night 
For  they  have  heard  the  voice  cry,   "Sleep 
no  more  f  [close 

Of  them  he  hath  not  been,  nor  such  as 
Their  hearts  to  misery,  till  the  time  is  o'er 
When  it  speaks  low  .and  kneels  the  oppres- 
sor's throne  before. 

LXXIII. 

He  hath  been  loved.     But  who  may  trust 

the  love 

Of  a  degenerate  race  ?    In  other  mould 
Are  cast  the  free  and  lofty  hearts  that  prove 
Their  faith  through  fiery  trials.  Yet  behold, 
And  call  him  not  forsaken  1    Thoughts  un- 
told [tread 
Have  lent  his   aspect  calmness  and  his 
Moves  firmly  to  the  shrine.    What  pomps 
unfold  [shed 
Within  its  precincts  !  Isles  and  seas  have 
Their  gorgeous  treasures  there  around  the 
imperial  dead. 

LXXIV. 

"Tis  a  proud  vision,  that  most  regal  pile 
Of  ancient  days  (  The  lamps  are  streaming 

bright 

From  its  rich  altar  down  each  pillared  aisle, 
Whose  vista  fades  in  dimness  ;  but  the  sight 
Is  lost  in  splendours,  as  the  wavering  light 
Develops  on  those  walls  the  thousand  dyes 
Of  the  veined  marbles  which  array  their 

height,  [eyes, 

And  from  yon  dome,,  the  loadstar  of  all 
Pour  such  an  iris-glow  as  emulates  the 

skies. 

LXXV. 

But  gaze  thou  not  on  these.  Though  heaven's 
own  hues  [vie — 

In  their  soft  clouds  and  radiant  tracery 
Though  tints  of  sun-bom  glory  may  suffuse 
Arch,  column,  rich  mosaic — pass  thou  by 
The  stately  tomb,  where  Eastern  Caesars  he 
Beneath  their  trophies.     Pause  not  here ; 

for  know, 
A  deeper  source  of  all  sublimity 


230 


T7TE  LAST  CONSTANTINO. : 


Lives  in  man's  bosom,  than  the  world  can 

show 
In  nature  or  in  art — above,  around,  below. 

i 
LXXVI. 

furn  thou  to  mark  (though  tears  may  dim  j 

thy  gaze) 

The  steel-clad  group  before  yon  altar-stone ; 
Heed  not  though  gems  and  gold  around  it 

blaze ;  [forms  alone, 

Those    heads   unhelmed,    those    kneeling 
Thus  bowed,    look  glorious    here.      The. 

light  is  thrown  [lord, 

Full  from  the  shrine   on  one,  a  nation's 
A  sufferer  1   but  bis   task   shall  soon  be 

done —  [poured, 

Even  now,  as   Faith's  mysterious  cup  is 
See  to  that  noble  brow  peace,  not  of  earth 

restored  1 

LXXVII. 

The  rite  is  o'er.     The  band  of  brethren 

part,  [again  ; 

Once,  and  but  once,    to  meet  on  earth 
Each,  in  the  strength  of  a  collected  heart, 
To  dare  what  man  may  dare — and  know 

'tis  vain. 

The  rite  is  o'er  :  and  thou,  majestic  fane  ! 
The  glory  is  departed  from  thy  brow  : 
Be  clothed  with  dust  1    The    Christian's 

farewell  strain  [must  bow, 

Hath  died  within  these  walls  ;  thy  cross 
Thy  kingly  tombs  be  spoiled,  the  golden 

shrines  laid  low. 

LXXVIH. 

The  streets  grow  still  and  lonely— and  the 

star, 

The  last  bright  lingerer  in  the  path  of  morn, 
Gleams  faint ;  and  in  the  very  lap  of  war, 
As  if  young  Hope  with  twilight's  rays  were 

born, 

Awhile  the  citysleeps :  herthrongs,  p'erworn 
With  fears  and  watchings  to  their  homes 

retire. 

Nor  is  the  balmy  air  of  dayspring  torn 
With   battle-sounds :    the  winds  .  in  sighs 

expire,  [beam's  fire. 

And  quiet  broods  in  mists  that  veil  the  sun- 

LXXIX. 

The  city  sleeps.    Ay !  on  the  combat's  eve, 
And  by  the.  scaffold's  brink,  and  'midst  the 

swell 

Of  angry  seas,  hath  nature  won  reprieve 
Thus  from  her  cares.     The  brave  have 

slumbered  well. 


And  even  the  fearful,  in  their  dungeon  cell, 
Chained  between  life  and  death.  Such  rest 

be  thine,  [tell, 

For  conflicts  wait  thee  still : — yet  who  can 
In  that  brief  hour,  how  much  of  heaven 

may  shine  [Constantine  1 

Full  on  thy  spirit's  dream?  Sleep,  weary 

LXXX. 

Doth  the  blast  rise  ?  The  clouded  east  is  red. 
As  if  a  storm  were  gathering  ;  and  I  hear 
What  seeir.s  like  heavy  rain-drops,  or  the 

tread,  [fear 

The  soft  and  smothered  step  of  .those  that 
Surprise  from  ambushed  foes.  Hark  I  yet 

•more  near 

It  conies,  a  many-toned  and  mingled  sound; 
A  rustling,  as  of  winds  where  boughs  are 

sere — 

A  rolling,  as  of  wheels  that  shake  the  ground 
From  far  ;  a  heavy  rush,  like  seas  that  burst 

their  bound. 

LXXXI. 

Wake  I  wake  1  They  come  from  sea  and 

shore  ascending 

In  hosts  your  ramparts.  Arm  ye  for  the  day  1 
Who  now  may  sleep  amidst  the  thunder's 

rending,  [array? 

Through  tower  and  wall,  a  path  for  their 
Hark  1  how  the  trumpet  cheers  them  to  the 

prey 

With  its  wild  voice,  to  which  the  seas  reply ; 
And  the  earth  rocks  beneath  their  engines' 

sway. 

And  the  far  hills  repeat  their  battle-cry, 
Till  that  fierce  tumult  seems  to  shake  the 

vaulted  sky  I 

LXXXIL 

They  fail  not  now,  the  generous  band  that 

long 
Have  ranged  their  swords  around  a  falling 

throne  ; 

Still  in  those  fearless  men  the  walls  are  strong. 
Hearts,  such  asrescueempires.aretheirown. 
— Shall  those  high  energies  be  vainlyshovvn? 
No  I  from  their  towers  the  invadipg  tide  is 

driven  [blown 

Back  like  the  Red  Sea  waves,  when  God  had 
With  His  strong  winds.  The  dark-browed 

ranks  are  riven  ;  [of  heaven  I 

Shout,  warriors  of  the  Cross  I — for  victory  is 


Stand  firm  1     Again  the  Crescent  host  is 

rushing.  [sweep 

And  the  waves  foam,  as  on  the  galleys 


THE  LAST  CONSTANTINE. 


231 


With  all  their  fires  and  darts,  though  blood 

is  gushing 

Fast  o'er  their  sides,  as  rivers  to  the  deep. 
Stand  firm  ! — there  is  yet  hope ;  the  ascent 

is  steep, 

And  from  on  high  no  shaft  descends  in  vain. 
But  those  that -fall  sweep  up  the  mangled 

heap, 

In  the  red  moat,  the  dying  and  the  slain, 
And  o'er  that  fearful  bridge  the  assailants 

mount  again. 

LXXXIV. 

Oh !  the  dread  mingling,  in  that  awful  hour, 
Of  all  terrific  sounds  I — the  savage  tone 
Of  the  wild  horn,  the  cannon's  peal,  the 

shower 
Of  hissing  darts,  the  crash  of  walls  o'er- 

thrown, 
The  deep  dull  tambour's  beat.   Man's  voice 

alone 

Is  there  unheard.    Ye  may  not  catch  the*  cry 
Of  trampled  thousands :  prayer,  and  shriek, 

and  moan,  [by, 

All  drowned  as  that  fierce  hurricane  sweeps 
But  swell  the  unheeded  sum  earth  pays  for 

victory, 

LXXXV. 

War-clouds  have  wrapt  the  city.    Through 

their  dun 

O'erloaded  canopy,  at  times  a  blaze 
As  of  an  angry  storm-presaging  sun 
From  the  Greek  fire  shoots  up !  and  light- 
ning-rays 
Flash  from  the  shock  of  sabres  through  the 

haze, 

And  glancing  arrows  cleave  the  dusky  air. 
—Ay !  this  is  in  the  compass  of  our  gaze, 
But  fearful  things  unknown,  untold,  are 
there —  [and  despair  ! 

Workings  of  wrath  and  death,  and  anguish, 

LXXXVI. 

Woe,  shame  and  woe !    A  chief,  a  warrior 

flies,  [pale. 

A  Red-cross  champion,  bleeding,  wild  and 
O  God  !  that  nature's  passing  agonies 
Thus  o'er  the  spark  that  dies  not  should 

prevail ! 

Ves !  rend  the  arrow  from  thy  shattered  mail, 
And  stanch  the  blood-drops,  Genoa's  fallen 

son  ; 

Fly  swifter  yet !  the  javelins  pour  as  hail. 
But  there  are  tortures  which  thou  canst  not 

shun :  [begun. 

The  spirit  is  their  prey — thy  pangs  are  not 


Oh,  happy  in  their  homes,  the  noble  dead  ! 
The  seal  is  set  on  their  majestic  fame ; 
Earth  has  drunk  deep  the  generous  blood 

they  shed,  [name. 

Fate  has  no  power  to  dim  their  stainless 
They  may  not  in  one  bitter  moment  shame 
Long  glorious  years.  From  many  a  lofty 

stem  [tame, 

Fall  graceful  flowers,  and  eagle  hearts  grow 
And  stars  drop,  fading  from  the  diadem : 
But  the  bright  past  is  theirs  ;   there  is  no 

change  for  them. 

LXXXVIH. 

Where   art    thou,    Cc-nstantine  ?    Where 

death  is  reaping  [light, 

His  sevenfold  harvest ! — where  the  storrny 
Fast  as  the  artillery's  thunderbolts  are 

sweeping,  [night ; 

Throws  meteor-bursts  o'er  battle's  noonday- 
Where  the  towers  rock  and  crumble  from 

their  height 

As  to  the  earthquake,  and  the  engines  ply 
Like  red  Vesuvio ;  and  wheje  human  might 
Confronts  all  this,  and  still  brave  hearts 

beat  high,  [panoply. 

While   scimitars   ring  loud  on  shivering 

LXXXIX. 

Where  art    thou,   Constantino  ?     Where 

Christian  blood  [vain ; 

Hath  bathed'  the  walls-  in  torrents,  and  in 
Where  faith  and  valour  perish  in  the  flood, 
Whose  billows,  rising  o'er  their  bosoms,  gain 
Dark  strength  each  moment ;  where  the 

gallant  slain 

Around  the  banner  of  the  Cross  lie  strewed 
Thick  as  the  vine-leaves  on  the  autumnal 

plain; 

Where  all  save  one  high  spirit  is  subdued, 
And  through  the  breach  press  on  the  o'er- 

whelming  multitude. 

xc. 

Now  is  he  battling  'midst  a  host  alone, 
As  the  last  cedar  stems  awhile  the  sway 
Of  mountain  storms,  whose  fury  hath  o'er- 

thrown 

Its  forest  brethren  in  their  green  array. 
And  he  hath  cast  his  purple  robe  away, 
With  his  imperial  bearings,  that  his  sword 
An  iron  ransom  from  the  chain  may. pay, 
And  win  what  haply  fate  may  yet  accord, 
A  soldier's  death-  the  all  now  left  an  em 

pire's  lord. 


232 


THE  LAST  CONSTANTINE. 


Search  for  him  uow  where  bloodiest  lie  the 

files  [brave  1 

Which  once  were  men,  the  faithful  and  the 
Search  for  him  now  where  loftiest  rise  the 

piles  [not  save, 

Of  shattered  helms  and  shields  which  could 
And  crests  and  banners  never  more  to  wave 
In  the  free  winds  of  heaven !  He  is  of  those 
O'er  whom  the  host  may  rush,  the  tempest 

rave,  [close, 

And  the  steeds  trample,  and  the  spearmen 
Yet  wake  them  not — so  deep  their  long  and 

last  repose. 

xcn. 

Woe  to  the  vanquished  I — thus  it  hath  been 
still  [people's  cry  1 

Since  Time's  first  march.     Hark,  hark,  a 
Ay,  now  the  conquerors  in  the  street  fulfil 
Their  task  of  wrath.     I  n  vain  the  victims  fly ; 
Hark  how  each  piercing  tone  of  agony 
Blends  in  the  city's  shriek  1    The  lot  is  cast. 
Slaves  I  'twas  your  choice  thus,  rather  thus, 
to  die,  [and  fast, 

Than  where  the  warrior's  blood  flows  warm 
And  roused  and  mighty  hearts  beat  proudly 
to  the  last. 

xcin. 

Oh,  well  doth  freedom  battle  1    Men  have 

made 

Even 'midst  their  blazing  roofs  a  noble  stand, 
And  on  the  floors  where  once  their  children 

played, 
And  by  the  hearths  jound  which    their 

household  band  [hand 

\t  evening  inut  ;   ay,  struggling  hand  to 
Within  the  very  chambers  of  their  sleep, 
There  have  they  taught  the  spoilers  of  the 

land  [deep 

In  chainless  hearts  what  fiery  strength  lies 
To  guard  free  homes.  But  ye  1 — kneel, 

tremblers  !  kneel  and  weep  I 

XCIV. 

Tis  eve.     The  storm  hath  died,  the  valiant 

rest  [is  done, 

txiw  on  their  shields  ;  the  day's  fierce  work 

And  blood-stained  seas  and  burning  towers 

attest 

Its  fearful  deeds.  An  empire's  race  is  run. 
Sad,  'midst  his  glory,  looks  the  parting  sun 
Upon  the  captive  city.  Hark  I  a  swell 
(Meet  to  proclaim  barbaric  war-fields  won) 
Of  fierce  triumphal  sounds,  that  wildly  tell 
The  Soldan  convjs  within  the  Ccssar's  halls 
to  dwell. 


xcv. 

Yes  I  with  the  peal  of  cymbal  and  of  gong, 
He  comes :  the  Moslem  treads  those  an- 
cient halls. 

But  all  is  stillness  there,  as  death  had  long 
Been  lord  alone  within   these   gorgeous 

walls ; 

And  half  that  silence  of  the  grave  appals 

The  conqueror's  heart.     Ay  1   (hus,  with 

triumph's  hour,  [calls 

Still  comes  the  boding  whisper,  which  re- 

A  thought  of  those  impervious  clouds  that 

lour  [mightier  Power 

O'er  grandeur's  path,  a  sense  of  some  fai 


1 '  The  owl  upon  Afrasiab's  towers  hath  sung 
Her  watch-song,  and  around  the  imperial 
throne  [hung 

The  spider  weaves  his  webl" — Still  darkly 
That  verse  of  omen,  as  a  prophet's  tone, 
O'er  his  flushed  spirit.      Years  on  years 
have  flown  [in  air. 

To  prove  its  truth.    Kings  pile  their  domes 
That  the  coiled  snake  may  bask  on  sculp- 
tured stone, 

And  nations  clear  the  forest,  to  prepare 
For  the  wild  fox  and  wolf  more  stately 
dwellings  there. 


But  thou,  that  on  thy  ramparts  proudly 

dying,  [die, 

As  a  crowned  leader  in  such  .hours  should 

Upon  thy  pyre  of  shivered  spears  art  lying, 

With  the  heavens  o'er  thee  for  a  canopy, 

And  banners  for  thy  shroud  1 — no  tear,  no 

stgb,  [nov. 

Shall  mingle  with  thy  dirge  ;  for  thou  ar< 

Beyond  vicissitude.     Lo  !  reared  on  high. 

The  Crescent  blazes,  while  the  Cross  must 

bow  ; —  [stantine,  art  thou. 

But  where  no  change  can  reach  thee,  Con- 


"  After  life's  fitful  fever  thou  sleep'st  well !" 
We  may  not  mourn  thee.    Sceptred  chiefs, 

from  whom 

The  earth  received  her  destiny  and  fell 
Before  them  trembling,  to  a  sterner  doom 
Have  oft  been  called.     For  them  the  dun- 
geon's gloom,  [made 
With  its  cold  starless  midnight,  hath  been 
More  fearful  darkness,  where,  as  in  a  tomb 
Without  a  tomb's  repose,  the  chain  hath 
weighed                                   [decayed. 
The  very  soul  to  dust,  with  each  high  power 


TEE  LAST  CONSTANTINE. 


233 


XCIX. 

Or  in  the  eye  of  thousands  they  have  stood, 
To  meet  the  stroke  of  death  ;  but  not  like 
thee.  [their  blood — 

From  bonds  and  scaffolds  hath  appealed 
But  thou  didst  fall  unfettered,  armed,  and 

free, 

And  kingly  to  the  last.    And  if  it.be 
That  from  the  viewless  world,  whose  mar- 
vels none 

Return  to  tell,  a  spirit's  eye  can  see 
The  things  of  earth, — still  may'st  thou  hail 
the  sun  [dom's  fight  is  won. 

Which  o'er  thy  land  shall  dawn  when  free- 


And  the  hour  comes,  in  storm.    A  light  is 
glancing  [shades : — 

Far.  through    the    forest-god's    Arcadian 
Tis  not  the  moonbeam,  tremulously  danc- 
ing, [glades. 
Where  lone  Alpheus  bathes  his  haunted 
A  murmur,  gathering  power,  the'-air  per- 
vades                                      [steep  : — 
Round   dark   Cithseron   and   by  Delphi's 
Tis  not  the  song  and  lyre  of  Grecian  maids, 
Nor  pastoral  reed  that  lulls  the  vales  to 
sleep,                            [sounding  deep. 
Nor  yet  the  rustling  pines,  nor  yet  the 


Arms  glitter  on  the  mountains  which  of  old 
Awoke  to  freedom's  first  heroic  strain, 
And-  by  the  streams,  once  crimson  as  they 

rolled 

The  Persian  helm  and  standard  to  the  main ; 
And  the  blue  waves  of  Salamis  again 
Thrill  to  the  trumpet ;  and  the  tombs  reply 
With  their  ten  thousand  echoes  from  each 

plain, 

Far  as-  Platsea's,  where  the  mighty  lie, 
Who  crowned  so  proudly  there  the  Bowl  of 

Liberty. 

CH. 

Bright  land,  with  glory  mantled  o'er  by 

song  I 

Land  of  the  vision-peopled  hills  and  streams 
And  fountains,  whose  deserted  banks  along 
Still  the  soft  air  with  inspiration  teems  1 


Land  of  the  graves,  whose  dwellers  shall 

be  themes 

To  verse  for  ever ;  and  of  ruined  shrines, 
That  scarce  look  desolate  beneath  such 

beams  [pines ! — 

As  bathe  in  gold  thine  ancient  rocks  and 
When  shall  thy  sons  repose  in  peace  beneath 

their  vines  ? 

cm. 

Thou  wert  not  made  for  bonds,  nor  shame, 

nor  fear.  [wave 

Do  the  hoar  oaks  and  dark  green  laurels 
O'er  Mantinea's  earth? — doth  Pindus  rear 
His  snows,  the  sunbeam  and  the  storm  to 

brave? 

And  is  there  yet  on  Marathon  a  grave  ? 
And  doth  Eurotas  lead  his  silvery  line 
By  Sparta's  ruins  ?  And  shall  man,  a  slave, 
Bowed  to  the   dust,   amid   such  scenes 

repine? 
If  e'er  a  soil  was  marked  for  freedom's  step, 

'tis  thine. 

CIV. 

Wash  from  that  soil  the  stains  with  battle- 
showers  ! 

Beneath  Sophia's  dome  the  Moslem  prays, 
The  Crescent  gleams  amidst  the  olive- 
bowers, 

In  the  Comneni's  halls  the  Tartar  sways  : 
But  not  for  long.  The  spirit  of  those  days, 
When  the  Three   Hundred    made   their 

funeral  pile 

Of  Asia's  dead,  is  kindling  like  the  rays 
Of  thy  rejoicing  sun,  when  first  his  smile 
Warms  the  Parnassian  rock  and  gilds  the 
Delian  isle. 

cv. 

If  then  'tis  given  thee  to  arise  in  might, 
Trampling  the  scourge  and  dashing  down 

the  chain, 

Pure  be  thy  triumphs  as  thy  name  is  bright ! 
The  cross  of  victory  should  not  know  astain. 
So  may  that  faith  once  more  supremely 

reign,  [dust, 

Through  which  we  lift  our  spirits  from  the 
And  deem  not,  even  when  virtue  dies  in  vain, 
She  dies  forsaken ;  but  repose  our  trust 
On  Him  whose  ways  are  dark,  r.ns*>arch 

able,  but  just. 


THE  LEAGUE  OF  THE  ALPS  5 

OK, 

HE  MEETING  ON  THE  FIELD  OF  GRUTLL 


AD  VBRTISEMENT. 

IT  was  in  the  year  1308,  that  the  Swiss  rose  against  the  tyranny  of  the  Bailiffs 
appointed  over  them  by  Albert  of  Austria.  The  field  called  the  Griitli,  at  the  foot  of 
the  Seelisberg,  and  near  the  boundaries  of  Un  and  Ur.terwalden,  was  fixed  upon  by 
three  spirited  yeomen,  Walter  Fiirst  (the  father-in-law  of  William  Tell),  Werner 
Stauffacher,  and  Erni  (or  Arnold)  Melchthal,  as  their  place  of  meeting,  to  deliberate  on 
the  accomplishment  of  their  projects. 

"  Hither  came  Fiirst  and  Melchthal,  along  secret  paths  over  the  heights,  and  Stauf- 
facher in  his  boat  across  the  Lake  of  the  Four  Cantons.  On  the  night  preceding  the 
nth  of  November,  1307,  they,  met  here,  each  with  ten  associates,  men  of  approved 
worth  ;  and  while  at  this  solemn  hour  they  were  wrapt  in  the  contemplation  that  on 
their  success  depended  the  fate  of  their  whole  posterity,  Werner,  Walter,  and  Arnold 
held  up  their  hands  to  heaven,  and  in  t!<s  name  of  the  Almighty,  who  has  created  man 
to  an  inalienable  degree  of  freedom,  sxvorc;  jointly  and  strenuously  to  defend  that  free- 
dom. The  thirty  associates  heard  the  oath  with  awe  ;  and  with  uplifted  hands  attested 
the  same  God,  and  all  his  saints,  that  they  were  firrray  bent  on  offering  up  their  lives 
for  the  defence  of  their  injured  liberty,  Tl.ey  then  calmly  agreed  on  their  future  pro- 
ceedings, and,  for  the  present,  each  returned  to  his  harr.let." — PLANTA'S  History  oj 
the  Helvetic  Confederacy. 

On  the  first  day  of  the  year  1308,  they  succeeded  in  throwing  off  the  Austrian  yoke, 
and  "  it  is  well  attested,"  says  the  same  author,  "  that  not  one  drop  of  blood  was  shed 
on  this  memorable  occasion,  nor  had  one  proprietor  to  lament  the  loss  of  a  claim,  a 
privilege,  or  an  inch  of  land.  The  Swiss  met  on  the  succeeding  Sabbath,  and  once 
more  confirmed  by  oath  their  ancient,  and  (as  they  fondly  named  it)  their  perpetual, 
league." 


TWAS  night  upon  the  Alps. — Thefienn's*  wild  horn, 
Like  a  wind's  voice,  had  poured  its  last  long  tone, 
Whose  pealing  echoes  through  the  larch-woods  borr.e, 
To  the  low  cabins,  of  the  glens  made  known 
That  v.-ejccme  steps  were  nigh.     The  flocks  had  gone, 
By  c!iff  and  pine-bno-;e,  to  their  place  of  resi  , 
The  chamois  slumbered,  for  the.  chase  was  done  ; 
His  cavern-bed  of  moss  the  hunter  prest, 
And  the  rock-ea^le  couched,  high  on  his  cloudy  riest. 


Did  the  land  sleep? — the  woodman's  axe  had  ceased 
Its  ringing  notes  upon  the  beech  and  plane  ; 
The  grapes  were  gathered  in  ;  the  vintage  feas! 
Was  closed  upon  the  hills,  the  reaper's  strain 
Hushed  by  the  streams  ;  the  year  was  in  its  wane, 


The  name  given  to  a  herdsrran  on  the  AJix> 


THE  LEAGUE  OF  THE  ALPS.  235 

The  night  in  its  mid-watch  ;  it  was  a  time 
E'en  marked  and  hallowed  unto  Slumber's  reign. 
But  thoughts  were  stirring,  restless  and  sublime, 
And  o'er  his  white  Alps  moved  the  Spirit  of  the  clime. 

III. 

For  there,  where  snows,  in  crowning  glory  spread, 
High  and  unmarked  by  mortal  footstep  lay  ; 
And  there,  where  torrents,  'midst  the  ice-caves  fed, 
Burst  in  their  joy  of.  light  and  sound  away  ; 
And  there,  where  Freedom,  as  in  scornful  play, 
Had  hung  man's  dwellings  'midst  the  realms  of  air, 
O'er  cliffs,  the  very  birth-place  of  the  day — 
Oh  1  who  would  dream  that  Tyranny  could  dare 
To  lay  her  withering  hand  on  God's  bright  works  e'en  there 

IV 

Yet  thus  it  was — amidst  the  fleet  streams  gushing 
To  bring  down  rainbows  o'er  their  sparry  cell, 
And  the  glad  heights,  through  mist  and  tempest  rushing 
Up  where  the  sun's  red  fire-glance  earliest  fell,    ' 
And  the  fresh  pastures,  where  the  herd's  sweet  bell 
Recalled  such  life  as  Eastern  patriarchs  led  ; — 
There  peasant-men  their  free  thoughts  might  not  Ull 
Save  in  the  hour  of  shadows  and  of  dread, 
And  hollow  sounds  that  wake  to  Guilt's  dull,  stealthy  tread. 

V. 

But  in  a  land  of  happy  shepherd-homes, 
On  its  green  hills  in  quiet  jr.y  reclining, 
With  their  bright  hearth-fires,  'midst  the  twilight  glooms, 
From  bowery  lattice  through  the  fir-woods  shining ; 
A  land  of  legends  arid  wild  songs,  entwining 
Their  memory  with  all  memories  loved  and  blest — 
In  such  a  land  there  dwells  a  power,  combining 
The  strength  of  many  a  calm,  but  fearless  breast  !— 
And  woe  to  him  who  breaks  the  sabbath  of  its  rest  1 


A  sound  went  up — the  wave's  dark  sleep  was  broke*- 
On  Uri's  lake  was  heard  a  midnight  oar — 
Of  man's  brief  course  a  troubled  moment's  token 
Th'  eternal  waters  to  their  barriers  bore ; 
And  then  their  gloom  a  flashing  image  wore 
Of  torch-fires  streaming  out  o'er  crag  and  wood, 
And  the  wild  falcon's  wing  was  heard  to  soar 
In  startled  haste — and  by  that  moonlight  flood, 
A  band  of  patriot  men  on  Griitli's  verdure  stood. 

VII. 

They  stood  in  arms — the  wolf-spear  and  the  bow 
Had  waged  their  war  on  things  of  mountain-race  : 
Might  not  their  swift  stroke  reach  a  mail-clad  foer— 
Strong  hands  in  harvest,  daring  feet  in  chase, 
True  hearts  in  fight,  were  gathered  on  that  place 
Of  secret  council. — Not  for  fame  or  spoil 
So  met  those  men  in  Heaven's  majestic  face ; — 


236  THE  LEAGUE  OF  THE  ALPS. 

To  guard  free  hearths  they  rose,  the  sons  of  tcfi. 
The  hunter  of  the  rocks,  the  tiller  of  the  soil. 


O'er  their  low  pastoral  valleys  might  the  tide 
Of  years  have  flowed,  and  still,  from  sire  to  son, 
Their  names  and  records  on  the  green  earth  died, 
As  cottage-lamps,  expiring,  one  by  one, 
.In  the  dim  glades,  when  midnight  hath  begun 
To  hush  all  sound. — But  silent  on  its  height, 
The  snow-mass,  full  of  death,  while  ages  run 
Their  course,  may  slumber,  bathed  in  rosy  light, 
Till  some  rash  voice  or  step  disturb  its  brooding  might,. 


So  were  they  roused — th  invading  step  had  past 
Their  cabin-thresholds,  and  the  lowly  door, 
Which  well  had  stood  against  the  Fohnwind's*  blast, 
Could  bar  Oppression  from  their  homes  no  more.— 
Why,  what  had  she  to  do  where  all  things  wore 
Wild  Grandeur's  impress  ? — In  the  storm's  free  way, 
How  dared  she  lift  her  pageant  crest  before 
Th'  enduring  and  magnificent  array 
Of  sovereign  Alps,  that  winged  their  eagles  with  the  day 


This  might  not  long  be  borne — the  tameless  hills 
Have  voices  from  the  cave  and  cataract  swelling, 
Fraught  with  His  name,  whose  awful  presence  fills 
Their  deep  lone  places,  and  for  ever  telling 
That  He  hath  made  man  free  ! — and  they  whose  dwelling 
Was  in  those  ancient  fastnesses,  gave  ear  ; 
The  weight  of  sufferance  from  their  hearts  repelling, 
They  rose — the  forester,  the  mountaineer — 
Oh  1  what  hath  earth  more  strong  than  the  good  peasant-speat 

XI. 

Sacred  be  Griitli's  field  ! — their  vigil  keeping 
Through  many  a  blue  and  starry  summer-night, 
There,  while  the  sons  of  happier  lands  were  sleeping. 
Had  these  brave  Switzers  met  ;  and  in  the  sight 
Of  the  just  God,  who  pours  forth  burning  might 
To  gird  the  oppressed,  had  given  their  deep  thoughts  way: 
And  braced  their  spirits  for  the  patriot-fight, 
With  lovely  images  of  homes,  that  lay 
Bcwered  'midst  the  rustling  pines,  or  by  their  torrent-spray. 

Xit. 

Now  had  endurance  reached  its  bounds  ! — They  came 
With  courage  set  in  each  bright,  earnest  eye, 
The  day,  the  signal,  and  the  hour  to  name,  .     - 

When  they  should  gather  on  their  hills  to  die, 
Or  shake  the  Glaciers  with  their  joyous  cry 
For  the  land's  freedom. — 'Twas  a  scene,  combining 
All  glory  in  itself — the  solemn  sky, 

•  The  south-aaai  wind 


TEE  LEAGUE  OF  THE  ALPS.  23* 

The  stars,  the  waves  their  softened  light  enshrining, 
And'Mari's  high  soul  supreme  o'er  mighty  nature  shining. 

XIII. 

Calmly  they  stood,  and  with  collected  mien, 

Breathing  their  souls  in  voices  firm  but  low, 

As  if  the  spirit  of  the  hour  and  scene, 
'    With  the  wood's  whisper,  and  the  wave's  sweet  flow, 

Had  tempered  in  their  thoughtful  hearts  the  glow 

Of  all  indignant  feeling.    To  the  breath 

Of  Dorian  flute,  and  lyre  note  soft  and  slow, 

E'en  thus,  of  old,  the  Spartan  from  its  sheath 
Drew  his  devoted  sword,  and  girt  himself  for  death. 

XIV. 

And  three,  that  seemed  as  chieftains  of  the  band, 
Were  gathered  in  the  midst  on  that  lone  shore 
By  Uri's  lake — a  father  of  the  land,* 
One  on'his  brow  the  silent  record  wore, 
Of  many  days  whose  shadows  had  passed  o'er 
His  path  amongst  the  hills,  and  quenched  the  dreams. 
Of  youth  with  sorrow. — Yet  from  memory's  lore 
Still  his  life's  evening  drew  its  loveliest  gleams, 
For  he  had  walked  with  God,  beside  the  mountain  streams. 

XV. 

And  his  grey  hairs,  in  happier  times,  might  well 
To  their  last  pillow  silently  have  gone, 
As  melts  a  wreath  of  snow. — But  who  shall  tell 
How  life  may  task  the  spirit  ? — He  was  one, 
Who  from  its  morn  a  freemanjs  work  had  done. 
And  reaped  his  harvest,  and  his  vintage  pressed, 
Fearless  of  wrong  ; — and  now,  at  set  of  sun, 
He  bowed  not  to  his  years,  for  on  the  breast 
Of  a  still  chainless  land,  he  deemed  it  much  to  rest. 

XVI. 

But  for  such  holy  rest  strong  hands  must  toil, 
Strong  hearts  endure  ! — By  that  pale  elder's  side, 
Stood  one  that  seemed  a  monarch  of  the  soil, 
Serene  and  stately  in  his  manhood's  pride, 
Werner,  t  the  brave  and  true  ! — If  men  have  died, 
Their  hearths  and  shrines  inviolate.to  keep, 
He  was  a  mate  for  such. — The  voice,  that  cried 
Within  his  breast,  "Arise !"  came  still  and  deep' 
From  his  far  home,  that  smiled,  e'en  then,  in  moonlight  sleep. 

XVII. 

It  was  a  home  to  die  for  ! — as  it  rose, 
Through  its  vine-foliage  sending  forth  a  sound 
Of  mirthful  childhood,  o'er  the  green  repose 
And  laughing  sunshine  of  the  pastures  round  ; 
And  he  whose  life  to  that  sweet  spot  was  bound. 
Raised  unto  Heaven  a  glad,  yet  thoughtful  eye, 
And  set  his  free  step  firmer  on  the  ground, 

*  Walter  Furst,  the  father-in-law  of  TelL 
W*nyr  Stauffechor,  who  had  boe?  urged  by  Ms  wife  to  rowsc  b«  countrymen  to  Rims. 


238  THE  LEAGUE  OF  THE  ALPS. 

When  o'er  his  soul  its  melodies  went  by, 
As  through  some  Alpine  pass,  a  breeze  of  Italy. 

XVTH. 

But  who  w»3  he,  thnt  on  his  hunting-spear 
Leaned  with  a  prouder  and  more  fiery  bearing  ? — 
His  was  a  brow  for  tyrant-hearts  to  fear, 
Within  the  shadow  of  its  dark  locks  wearing 
That  which  they  may  not  tame — a  soul  declaring 
War  against  earth's  oppressors. — 'Midst  that  throng. 
Of  other  mould  he  seemed,  and  loftier  daring, — 
One  whose  blood  swept  high  impulses  along, — 
One  that  should  pass,  and  leave  a  name  for  warlike  song. 


A  memory  on  the  mountains  ! — one  to  stand, 
When  the  hills  echoed  with  the  deepening  swell 
Of  hostile  trumpets,  foremost  for  the  land, 
And  in  some  rock-defile,  or  savage  dell, 
Array  her  peasant-children  to  repel 
Th'  invader,  sending  arrows  for  his  chains  I 
Ay,  one  to  fold  around  him,  as  he  fell, 
Her  banner  with  a  smile— for  through  his  veins 
The  joy  of  danger  flowed,  as  torrents  to  the  plains. 


There  was  at  times  a  wildness  in  the  light 
Of  his  quick-flashing  eye  ;  a  something,  bor:< 
Of  the  free  Alps,  and  beautifully  bright, 
And  proud,  and  tameless,  laughing  Fear  to  scorn  5 
It  well  might  be  ! — Young  Erni's*  step  had  worn 
The  mantling  snows  on  their  most  regal  steeps, 
And  tracked  the  lynx  above  the  clouds  of  morn. 
And  followed  where  the  flying  chamois  leaps 
Across  the  dark-blue  rifts,  th'  unfathomed  glacier-deeps. 


He  was  a  creature  of  (he  Alpine  sky, 
A  being,  whose  bright  spirit  had  been  fed 
'Midst  the  crowned  heights  with  joy  and  iibeny, 
And  thoughts  of  power. — He  knew  each  path  which  led 
To  the  rock's  cieasure-caves,  whose  crystals  shed 
Soft  light  o'er  secret  fountains.— At  the  lone 
Of  his  loud  horn,  the  Lammer-Geyert  had  spread 
A  startled  wing ;  for  oft  that  pral  had  blown 
Where  the  free  cataract's  voice  was  wont  to  sound  alone, 


His  step  had  tracked  the  waste,  his  soul  had  stirred 
The  ancient  solitudes — his  voice  had  told 
Of  wrongs  to  call  down  Heaven.J — That  (ale  was  heard 
In  Hasli's  dales,  and  where  the  shepherds  fold 
Their  flocks  in  dark  ravine  and  craggy  hold 

•  Arnold  Melchthal.  t  Largest  Alpine  eagle. 

I  His  aged  fetner'i  cye»  iwd  been  put  ptrt  Vy  wter  of  the  Austrian  governor 


TEE  LEAGUE  OF  THE  ALP&  239 

On  the  bleak  Ob.erland  ;  and  where  the  light 
Of  Day's  last  footstep  bathes  in  burning  gold 
Great  Righi's  cliffs  ;  and  where  Mount  Pilate's  height 
Casts  o'er  his  glassy  lake  the  darkness  of  his  might. 

XXIII. 

Nor  was  it  heard  in  vain. — There  all  things  press 
High  thoughts  on  man. — The  fearless  hunter  passed, 
And,  from  the  bosom  of  the  wilderness, 
There  leapt  a  spirit  and  a  power  to  cast 
The  weight  of  bondage  down — and  bright  and  fast. 
As  the  clear  waters,  joyousiy  and  free, 
Burst  from  the  desert-rock,  it  rushed,  at  last, 
Through  the  far  valleys  ;  till  the  patriot-three 
Thus  with  their  brethren  stood,  beside  the  Forest  Sea.1 

XXIV. 

They  linked  their  hands,— they  pledged  their  stainless  faith, 
In  the  dread  presence  of  attesting  Heaven — 
They  bound  their  hearts  to  suffering  and  to  death, 
With  the  severe  and  solemn  transport  given 
To  bless  such  vows. — How  man  had  striven, 
How  man  might  strive,  and  vainly  strive,  they  knew, 
And  called  upon  their  God,  whose  arm  had  nven 
The  crest  of  many  a  tyrant,  since  He  blew  > 
The  foaming  sea-wave  on,  apd  Egypt's  might  o'erthrow. 


They  knelt,  and  rose  in  strength.— The  valleys  lay 
Still  in  the  dimness,  but  the  peaks  which  darted 
Into  the  bright  mid-air,  had  caught  Horn  day 
A  flush  of  fire,  when  those  true  Switzcrs  parted, 
Each  to  his  glen  or  forest,  steadfast-hearted, 
And  full  of  hope.     Not  many  suns  had  worn  , 
Their  setting  glory,  ere  from  slumber  started 
Ten  thousand  voices,  of  the  mountains  born — 
So  far  was  heard  the  blast  of  Freedom's  echoing  horn  I 

XXVI. 

The  ice- vaults  trembled,  when  that  peal  came  rending 
The  frozen  stillness  which  around  them  hung ; 
From  cliff  to  cliff  the  avalanche  descending. 
Gave  answer,  till  the  sky's  blue  hollows  rung  ; 
And  the  flame-signals  through  the  midnight  sprung, 
From  the  Surennen  rocks  like  banners  streaming 
To  the  far  Scelisberg  ;  whence  light  wa,s  flung 
On  Griitli's  field,  till  all  the  red  lake  gleaming 
Shone  out,  a  meteor-heaven  in  its  wild  splendour  seeming. 

XXVJI. 

And  the  winds  tossed  each  summit's  blazing  crest, 
As  a  host's  plumage  ;  and  the  giant  pines, 
Felled  where  they  waved  o'er  crag  and  eagle's  nest. 
Heaped  up  the  flames.    The  clouds  grew  fiery  signs, 
As  o'er  a  city's  burning  towers  and  shrines, 

•  Lak*  of  tbc  Pour  Can*w, 


240 


THE  YESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 


Reddening  .the  distance.    Wine-cups,  crowned  and  bright, 
In  Werner's  dwelling  flowed  ;  through  leafless  vines, 
From  Walter's  hearth  streamed  forth  the  festive  light, 
And  Erui's  blind  old  sire  gave  thanks  to  Heaven  that  nigbt 

xxvm. 

Then,  on  the  silence  of  the  snows  there  lay 
A  Sabbath's  quiet  sunshine, — and  its  bell 
Filled  the  hushed  air  awhile,  with  lonely  sway ; 
For  the  stream's  voice  was  chained  by  Winter's  spell, 
The  deep  wood-sounds  had  ceased. — But  rock  and  delt 
Rung  forth,  ere  long,  when  strains  of  jubilee 
Pealed  from  the  mountain-churches,  with  a  swell 
Of  praise  to  Him  who  stills  the  raging  sea, — 
For  now  the  strife  was  closed,  the  glorious  Alps  were  fre<  I 


1&22. 

THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 

A  TRAGEDY.— IN  FIVE  ACTS. 
DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


COUNT  DI  PROCIDA. 
RAIMOND  DI  PROCIDA,  his  SOH. 
ERIBERT,  Viceroy. 
DE  Couci. 

MONTALBA. 
GUIDO. 


ALBERT!. 

ANSELMO,  a  Monk. 

VlTTORIA. 

CONSTANCE,  Sister  to  Eribert. 


Nobles,  Soldiers,  Messengers,  Vassals,  Peasants,- &c,  &*c. 
SCENE— PALERMO. 


ACT  THE  FIRST. 
SCENE  I. — A  Valley,  with  Vineyards  and 

Cottages. 

Groups  of  Peasants — PROCIDA,  disguised 
as  a.  Pilgrim,  amongst  them. 

First  Peas.  Ay,  this  was  wont  to  be  a 

festal  time 

Iii  days  gone  by !  I  can  remember  well 
The  old  familiar  melodies  that  rose 
At  break  of  morn,  from  all  our  purple  hills, 
To  welcome  in  the  vintage.     Never  since 
Hath  music  seemed  so  sweet  1    But  the 

light  hearts 
Which  to  those  measures  beat  so  joyously 


Are  tamed  to  stillness  now.    There  is  no 

voice 
Of  joy  through  all  the  land. 

Second  Peas.  Yes  1  there  are  sounds 
Of  revelry  within  the  palaces, 
And  the  fair  castles  of  our  ancient  lords, 
Where' now  the  stranger  banquets.   Ye  may 

hear 
From  thence  the  peals  of  song  and  laughter 

rise 

At  midnight's  deepest  hour. 
Third  Peas.  Alas  I  we  sat 
In  happier  days,  so  peacefully  beneath 
The  olives  and  the  vines  our  fathers  reared, 
Encircled  byourchildren,  whose  quick  step 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO 


241 


Flew  by  as  in  the  dance !    The  time  hath 

been 

When  peace  was  in  the  hamlet,  wheresoe'er 
The  storm  might  gather.     But  this  yoke  of 

France 

Falls  on  the  peasant's  neck  as  heavily 
As  on  the  crested  chieftain's.  We  are  bowed 
E'en  to  the  earth. 

Peas.'s  Child.  My  father,  tell  me  when 

Shall  the  gay  dance  and  song  again  resound 

Amidst  our  chestnut-woods,  as  in  those  days 

Of  which  thou'rt  wont  to  tell  the  joyous  tale  ? 

First  Peat.  When  there  are  light  and 

reckless  heart;  once  more 
In  Sicily's  green  vales.    Alas !  my  boy, 
Men  meet  not  now  to  quaff  the  flowing  bowl, 
To  hear  the  mirthful  song,  and  cast  aside 
The  weight  of  work-day  care : — they  meet 

to  speak 
Of  wrongs  and  sorrows,  and  to  whisper 

thoughts 

They  dare  not  breathe  aloud. 
Pro.  (from  tht  background).  Ay,    it  is 

well 
Bo  to  relieve  th'  o'erburdened  heart,  which 

pants 

Beneath  its  weight  of  wrongs ;  but  better  far 
In  silence  to  avenge  them. 

An  old  Peas.  What  deep  voice 
Came  with  that  startling  tone  ? 

First  Peas.  It  was  our  guest's, 
The  stranger  pilgrim,  who  hath  sojourned 

here 
Since  yester-morn.  Good  neighbours,  mark 

him  well ; 

He  hath  a  stately  bearing,  and  an  eye 
Whose  glance  looks  through  the  heart. 

His  mien  accords 
111  with  such  vestments.      How  be  folds 

around  him 

His  pilgrim-cloak,  e'en  as  it  were  a  robe 
Of  knightly  ermine!     That  commanding 

step 
Should  have  been  used  in  courts  and  camps 

to  move. 
Mark  him  I 
Old  Peas.  Nay,  rather,  mark  him  not : 

the  times 
Are  fearful,  and  they  teach  the  boldest 

hearts 
A  cautious  lesson.    What  should  bring  him 

here? 

•A  Youth.  He  spoke  of  vengeance  I 
Old  Peas.  Peace  I  we  are  beset 
By  snares  on  every  side,  and  we  must  learn 
In  silence  and  in  patience  to  endure; 
Tali  not  of  vengeance,  for  the  word  is 

death. 


Pro.  (coming  forward  indignantly).  The 

word  is  death  l"\  And  what  hath  life 

for  thee, 
That  thou  shouldst  cling  to  it  thus  ?  thou 

abject  thing  I 

Whose  very  soul  is  moulded  to  the  yoke, 
And  stamped  with  servitude.     What  1  is  it 

life. 

Thus  at  a  breeze  to  start,  to  school  thy  voice 
Into  low  fearful  whispers,  and  to  cast 
Pale  jealous  looks  around  thee,  lest,  e'en 

then, 
Strangers  should  catch  its  echo  ?— Is  there 

aught 

In  /Aw-so  precious,  that  thy  furrowed  cheek 
Is  blanched  with   terror   at  the  passing 

thought 

Of  hazarding  some  few  and  evil  days. 
Which  drag  thus  poorly  on  ? 

Some  of  the  Peas.  Away,  away! 
Leave  us,  for  there  is  danger  in  thy  presence. 
Pro.  Why,  what  is  danger? — Are  there 

deeper  ills 
Than  those  ye  bear  thus  calmly  ?    Ye  have 

drained 

The  cup  of  bitterness,  till  nought  remains 
To  fear  or  shrink  from — therefore,  be  ye 

strong ! 
Power  dwelleth  with  despair. — Why  start 

ye  thus 
At  words  which  are  but  echoes  of  the 

thoughts 
Locked  in  your  secret  souls? — Full  well  I 

know,  [nursed 

There  is  not  one  amongst  you,  but  hath 
Some  proud  indignant  feeling,  which  doth 

make 

One  conflict  of  his  life.   I  know  thy  wrongs, 
And  thine — and  thine, — but  if  within  your 

breasts 

There  is  no  chord  that  vibrates  to  my  voice, 
Then  fare  ye  well, 
A  Youth  (coming forward).    No,  no  I  say 

on,  say  on  !  -  [here, 

There  are  still  free  and  fiery  hearts  e'en 
That  kindle  at  thy  words. 

Peas.  If  that  indeed 
Thou  hast  a  hope  to  give  us. 

Pro.  There  is  hope 

For  all  who  suffer  with  indignant  thoughts 
Which  work  in  silent  strength.     What  I 

think  ye  Heaven 

O'erlooks  jth'  oppressor,  if  he  bear  awhile 
His  crested  head  on  high? — I  tell  you,  no ! 
Th'  avenger  will  not  sleep.     It  was  an  hour 
Of  triumph  to  the  conqueror,  when  our  king, 
Our  young  brave  Cor.radin,  in  life's  fail 

room, 


242 


TEE  VESfEJRS  OF  PALERMO. 


On  the  red  scaffold  died.    Yet  not  the  less 

Is  justice  throned  above ;  and  her  good  time 

Comes  rushing  on  in  Storms :  that  royal 
blood 

Hath  lifted  an  accusing  voice  from  earth, 

And  hath  been  heard.    The  traces  of  the 
past 

Fade  in  man's  heart,  but  ne'er  doth  Heaven 

forget. 

Peas.  Had  we  but  arms  and  leaders,  we 
are  men 

Who  might  earn  vengeance  yet ;  but  want- 
ing these, 

What  wouldsc  thou  have  us  do  ? 
Peas.  Be  vigilant ; 

And  when  the  signal  wakes  the  land,  arise ! 

The  peasant's  arm  is  strong,  and  there 
shall  be 

A  rich  and  noble  harvest,    Fare  ye  well. 

[Exit  PROCIDA. 

First  Ptas.  This  man  should  be  a  pro- 
phet :  how  he  seemed 

To  read  our  hearts  with  his  dark  searching 
glance 

And  aspect  of  command  I  And  yet  his  garb 

Is  mean  as  ours. 

Second  Peas.  Speak  low ;  I  know  him 
well. 

fit  first  his  voice  disturbed  me  like  a  dream 

Of  other  days  ;  but  I  remember  now 

His  form,  seen  oft  when  in  my  youth  I 
served 

Beneath  the  banners  of  our  kings.    Tis  he 

Who  hath  been  exiled  and  proscribed  so 
long, 

The  Count  di  Procida. 
Peas.  And  is  this  he  ?  [steps 

Then  Heaven  protect  him  1  for  around  his 

Will  many  snares  be  set. 
First  Peas.  He  comes  not  thus 

But  with  some  mighty  purpose ;  doubt  it 
not: 

Perchance  to  bring  us  freedom.    He  is  one 

Whose  faith,  through  many  a  trial,  hath 
been  proved 

True  to  our  native  princes.     But  away ! 

The  noon-tide  heat  is  past,  and  from  the 
seas 

Light  gales  are  wandering  through  the  vine- 
yards I  now 

We  may  resume  our  toil. 

[Exeunt  PEASANTS. 

SCENE  U.—The  Terrace  of  a  Castle. 
ERIBERT.     VITTORIA. 

VU.  Have  T  not  told  thee  thai  i  bear  a 
heart 


Blighted  and  cold? — Th'  affections  of  my 

youth 
Lie  slumbering  in  the  grave ;  their  fount  is 

closed, 

And  all  the  soft  and  playful  tenderness 
Winch  hath  its  home  in  woman's  breast, 

ere  yet 
Deep  wrongs  have  seared  it :  all  is  fled 

from  mine. 
Urge  me  no  more. 

Erib.  O  lady  I  doth  the  flower 
That  sleeps  entombed  through  the  long 

wintry  storms 

Unfold  its  beauty  to  the  breath  of  spring  ; 
And  shall  not  woman's  heart,  from  chill 

despair, 
Wake  at  love's  voice  ? 

Vit,  Love  I— make  love's  name  thy  spell, 
And  I  am  strong  I — the  very  word  calls  up 
From  the  dark  past,  thoughts,  feelings, 

powers,  arrayed 
In  arms  against  thee  1— Know'st  thou  whom 

I  loved, 
While  my  soul's  dwelling-place  was  still  on 

earth  ? 

One  who  was  born  for  empire,  and  endowed 
With  such  high  gifts  of  princely  majesty 
As  bowed  all  hearts  before  him  1— Was  ht 

not 

Brave,  royal,  beautiful  ? — And  such  he  died ; 
He  died  !— hast  thou  forgotten  ?  — And 

thou'rt  here, 
Thou  meet'st  my  glance  with  eyes  which 

coldly  looked, — 

Coldly ! — nay,  rather  with  triumphant  gaze, 
Upon  his  murder  !— Desolate  as  I  am, 
Yet  in  the  mien  of  thine  affianced  bride, 
Oh,  my  lost  Conradin  I  there  should  be  still 
Somewhat  of  loftiness,  which  might  o'erawe 
The  hearts  of  thine  assassins. 

Erib.  Haughty  dame  ! 
If  thy  proud  heart  to  tenderness  be  closed, 
Know,  danger  is  around  thee  :  thou  hasl 

foes 

That  seek  thy  ruin,  and  my  power  alone 
Can  shield  thee  from  their  arts. 

Vit.  Provencal,  teil 

Thy  tale  of  danger  to  some  happy  heart, 
Which  hath  its  little  world  of  loved  ones 

round, 

For  whom  to  tremble ;  and  its  tranquil  joys 
That  make  earth  Paradise.  I  stand  alone  ;— 
They  that  are  blest  may  fear. 

Erib.  Is  there  not  one 
Who  ne'er   commands   in    vain?-~proad 

lady,  bend 

Thy  spirit  to  thy  fate  ;  for  know  that  he 
Wh^se  car  of  triumph  in  i  ts  earthquake  patb 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 


243 


O'er  the  bowed  neck  of  prostrate  Sicily, 
Hath  borne  him  to  dominion ;  he,  my  king, 
Charles  of  Anjou,  decrees  thy  hand  the  boon 
My  deeds  have  well  deserved ;  and  who  hath 

power 
Against  his  mandates  ? 

Vit.  Viceroy,  tell  thy.  lord, 
That  e'en  where  chains  lie  heaviest  on  the 

land. 

Souls  may  not  all  be  fettered.    Oft,  ere  now, 
Conquerors  have  rocked  the  earth,  yet  failed 

to  tame 

Unto  their  purposes  that  restless  fire 
Inhabiting  man's  breast.     A  spark  bursts 

forth, 

And  so  they  perish  I — 'tis  the  fate  of  those 
Whosport  with  lightning — andit  may»jehis. 
Tell  him  I  fear  him  not,  and  thus  am  free. 
Erib.  Tis  well.    Then  nerve  that  lofty 

heart  to  bear 

The  wrath  which  is  not  powerless.  Yet  again 
Bethink  thee,  lady  ! — Love  may  change — 

hath  changed 

To  vigilant  hatred  oft,  whose  sleepless  eye 
.Still  finds  what  most  it  seeks  for.     Fare 

thee  well. — 
Look  to  it  yet  1 — To-morrow  I  return. 

[Exit  -EiUBERT. 
Vit.  To-morrow  ! — Some  ere  now  have 

slept,  and  dreamt 
OJ  morrows  which  ne'er  dawned— or  ne'er 

for  them  ; 

SO  silently  their  deep  and  still  repose 
»iath  melted  into  death  1 — Are  there  not 

balms 
In  nature's  boundless  realm,  to  pour  out 

sleep 
Like  this,  on  me  ? — Yet  should  my  spirit 

still 

Endure  its  earthly  bonds,  till  it  could  bear 
To  his  a  glorious  tale  of  his  own  isle, 
Free  and  avenged. — Thou  should'st  be  now 

at  work, 

In  wrath,  my  native  Etna  !  who  dost  lift 
Thy  spiry  pillar  of  dark  smoke  so  high, 
Through  the  red  heaven  of  sunset — sleep's! 

thou  still, 
With  all  thy  founts  of  fire,  while  spoilers 

tread 
The  glowing  vales  beneath  ? 

(PROCIDA  enters,  disguised.) 

Ha  I  who  art  thou, 

Unbidden  guest,  that  with  so  mute  a  step 
Doth  steal  upon  me? 

Pro.  One  o'er  whom  hath  passed 
All  that  can  change  man's  aspect  I — Yet  not 


Shalt  thou  find  safety  in  forgetfulness.— 
I  am  he  to  breathe  whose  name  is  perilous, 
Unless  thy  wealth  could  bribe  the  winds  to 

silence. — 
K  no  west  thou  this,  lady? 

[He  shows  a  ring. 

Vit.  Righteous  Heaven  !  the  Pledge 
Amidst  his  people  from  the  scaffold  thrown 
By  him  who  perished,  and  whose   kingly 

blood 
E'en  yet  is   unatoned, — My   heart    beats 

high— 

Oh,  welcome,  welcome  1  thou  art  Procida, 
Th'  Avenger,  the  Deliverer  t 

Pro.  Call  me  so  [tell 

When  my  great  task  is  done.    Yet  who  can 
If  the  returned  bt   welcome  ?  —  Many  a 

heart 

Is  changed  since  last  we  met. 
Vit.  Why  dost  thou  gaze, 
Wilh  such  a  still  and  solemn  earnestness, 
Upon  my  altered  mien? 
Pro.  That  I  may  read 
If  to  the  widowed  love  of  Conradin, 
Or  the  proud  Eribert's  triumphant  bride, 
I  now  entrust  my  fate. 
Vit.  Thou,  Procida! 

That  thou  shouldst  wrong  me  thus  ! — Pro- 
long thy  gaze 
Till  it  hath  found  an  answer. 

Pro.  'Tis  enough. 

I  find  it  in  thy  cheek,  whose  rapid  change 
Is  from  death's  hue  to  fever's  ;  in  the  wild 
Unsettled  brightness  of  thy  proud  dark  eye 
And  in  thy  wasted  form.    Ay,  'tis  a  deep 
And  solemn  joy,  thus  in  thy  looks  to  trace, 
Instead  of  youth's  gay  bloom,  the  characters 
Of  noble  suffering  ; — on  thy  brow  the  same 
Commanding  spirit  holds  its  native  state 
Which  could  not  stoop  to  vileness.   Yet  the 

voice 
Of  Fame  hath  told  afar' that  thou  shouldst 

wed 
This  tyrant,  Eribert. 

Vit.  And  told  it  not- 

A  tale  of  insolent  love  repelled  with  scorn 
Of  stern  commands  and  fearful  menaces 
Met  with  indignant  courage  ?— -Procida  1 
It  was  but  now  that  haughtily  I  braved 
His  sovereign's  mandate,  which  decrees  nu 

hand, 

With  its  fair  appanage  of  wide  domains 
And  wealthy  vassals,  a  most  fitting  boon, 
To  recompense  his  crimes. — I  smued — ay, 

smiled — 

In  proud  security !  for  the  high  of  heart 
Have  still  a  pathway  to  escape  disgrace, 
Though  it  be  dark  and  lone. 


244 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 


Pro.  Thou  shalt  not  need 
To  tread  its  shadowy  mazes.     Trust  my 

words : 

I  tell  thee  that  a  spirit  is  abroad 
Which  will  not  slumber  till  its  path  be 

traced 

By  deeds  of  fearful  fame.    Vittoria,  live  ! 
It  is  most  meet  that  thou  shouldst  live  to 

see 

The  mighty  expiation  ;  for  thy  heart 
(Forgive  me  that  I  wronged  its  faith)  hath 

nursed 

A  high,  majestic  grief,  whose  seal  is  set 
Deep  on  thy  marble  brow. 

Vit.  Then  thou  canst  tell 
By  gazing  on  the  withered  rose,  that  there 
Time,  or  the  blight,  hath  worked ! — Ay, 

this  is  in 
Thy  vision's  scope ;  but  oh  1  the  things 

unseen, 
Untold,  undreamt  of,  which  like  shadows 

pass 

Hourly  o'er  that  mysterious  world,  a  mind 
To  ruin  struck  by  grief ! — Yet  doth  my  soul, 
Far,  'midst  its  darkness,  nurse  one  soaring 

hope, 

Wherein  is  bright  vitality. — 'Tis  to  see 
His  blood  avenged,  and  his  fair  heritage, 
My  beautiful  native  land,  in  glory  risen, 
Like  a  warrior  from  his  slumbers ! 

Pro.  Hear'st  thou  not 
With  what  a  deep  and  ominous  moan  the 

voice  [be  soon 

Of  our  great  mountain  swells  ? — There  will 
A  fearful  burst ! — Vittoria  !  brood  no  more 
In  silence  o'er  thy  sorrows,  but  go  forth 
Amidst  thy  vassals  (yet  be  secret  still), 
And  let  thy  breath  give  nurture  to  the  spark 
Thou'lt  find  already  kindled.     I  move  on 
In  shadow,  yet  awakening  in  my  path 
That  which  shall  startle  nations.   Fare  thee 

well. 
Vit.  When  shall  we  meet,  again? — Are 

we  not  those 
Whom  most  he  loved  on  earth,  and  think'st 

thou  not 

That  love  e'en  yet  shall  bring  his  spirit  near 
While  thus  we  hold  communion? 

Pro.  Yes,  I  feel 
Its  breathing  influence  whilst  I  look  on 

thee, 

Who  wert  its  light  in  life.  Yet  will  we  not 
Make  womanish  tears  our  offering  on  his 

tomb ; 
He  shall  have  nobler  tribute! — I  must 

hence, 
But  thou  shalt  soon  hear  more.   Await  the 

time,  [Exeunt  separately. 


SCENE  III.— The  Sea-snore. 
RAIMOND  DI  PROCIDA.     CONSTANCE, 

Con.  There  is  a  shadow  far  within  youi 

eye, 
Which  hath  of  late  been  deepening.    You 

were  wont 

Upon  the  clearness  of  your  open  brow 
To  wear  a  brighter  spirit,  shedding  round 
Joy,  like  our  southern  sun.    It  is  not  well, 
If  some  dark  thought  be  gathering  o'er 

your  soul, 

To  hide  it  from  affection.    Why  is  this, 
My  Raimond,  why  is  this? 

Rai.  Oh !  from  the  dreams 
Of  youth,  sweet  Constance,  hath  not  man 

hood  still 
A   wide   and    stormy   wakening? — They 

depart ; 

Light  after  light,  our  glorious  visions  fade, 
The  vaguely  beautiful  I  till  earth,  unveiled, 
Lies  pale  around ;  and  life's  realities 
Press  on  the  soul,  from  its  unfathomed- 

j   depth 
Rousing   the   fiery   feelings,    and   proud 

thoughts, 
In  all  their  fearful  strength! — Tis  ever 

thus, 

And  doubly  so  with  me ;  for  I  awoke 
With  high  aspirings,  making  it  a  curse 
To  breathe  where  noble  minds  are  bowed, 

as  here. 
To  breathe ! — it  is  not  breath ! 

Con.  I  knew  thy  grief, — 
And  is't  not  mine  ? — for  those  devoted  men 
Doomed  with  their  life  to  expiate  some 

wild  word, 

Born  of  the  social  hour.    Oh  !  I  have  knelt 
E'en  at  my  brother's  feet,  with  fruitless 

tears, 

Imploring  him  to  spare.  His  heart  is  shut 
Against  my  voice  ;  yet  will  I  not  forsake 
The  cause  of  mercy. 

Rai.  Waste  not  thou  thy  prayers, 
Oh,  gentle  love,  for  them.    There  is  little 

need 

For  Pity,  though  the  galling  chain  be  worn 
By  some  few  slaves  the  less.     Let  them 

depart  ! 
There  is  a  world  beyond  th'  oppressor's; 

reach, 
And  thither  lies  their  way. 

Con.  Alas  I  I  see 
That  some  new  wrong  hath  pierced  you  to  [ 

the  soul.  [words, 

Rai.  Pardon,  beloved  Constance,  if  my 
From  feelings  hourly  stung,  have  caught, 
perchance, 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 


245 


Atone  of  bitterness.  — Oh !  when  thine  eyes. 
With  their  sweet  eloquent  thoughtful  ness, 

are  fixed 

Thus  tenderly  on  mine,  I  should  forget 
All  else  in  their  soft  beams  !  and  yet  I  came 
To  tell  thee — 

Con.  What?    What  wouldst  thou  say? 

O  speak  ! — 

Thou  wouldst  not  leave  me  ! 
Rai.  \  have  cast  a  cloud, 
The  shadow  of  dark  thoughts  and  ruined 

fortunes. 

O'er  thy  bright  spirit.  Haply,  were  I  gone, 
Thou  wouldst  resume  thyself,  and  dwell 

once  more 

In  the  clear  sunny  light  of  youth  and  joy. 
E'en  as  before  we  met — before  we  loved  I 
Con.  This  is  but  mockery. — Well  thou 

know'st  thy  love 
Hath  given  me  nobler  being  ;  made  my 

heart 

A  home  for  all  the  deep  sublimities 
Of  strong    affection ;    and    I   would   not 

change  [source>> 

Th'  exalted  life  I  draw  from  that  pure 
With  all  its  chequered  hues  of  hope  and  fear, 
Even  for  the  brightest  calm.  Thou  most 

unkind ! 
Have  I  deserved  this  ? 

Rai.  Oh  !  thou  hast  deserved 
A  love  less  fatal  to  thy  peace  than  mine. 
Think  not  'tis  mockery  ! — But  I  cannot  rest 
To  be  the  scorned  and  trampled  thing  1  am 
In  this  degraded  land.     Us  very  skies, 
That  smile  as  if  but  festivals  were  held 
Beneath  their  cloudless  azure,  weigh  me 

down 

With  a  dull  sense  of  bondage,  and  1  pine 
For  freedom's  chartered  air.     I  would  go 

forth 

To  seek  my  noble  father  ;  he  hath  been 
Too  long  a  lonely  exile,  and  his  name 
Seems  fading  in  the  dim  obscurity 
Which  gathers  round  my  fortunes. 

Con.  Must  we  part  ? 

And  is  it  come  to  this  ? — Oh  !  I  have  still 
Deemed  it  enough  of  joy  with  thee  to  share 
E'en  grief  itself — and  now — but  this  is  vain  ; 
Alas  1  too  deep,  too  fond,  is  woman's  love, 
Too  full  of  hope,  she  casts  on  troubled  waves 
The  treasures  of  her  soul  ! 

Rai.  Oh,  speak  not  thus ! 
Thy  gentle  and  desponding  tones  fall  cold 
Upon  my  inmost  heart. — I  leave  thee  but 
To  be  more  worthy  of  a  love  like  thine, 
For  I  have  dreamt  of  fame  1— A  few  short 

years, 
And  we  may  yet  be  blest. 


I      Con.  A  few  short  years ! 
Less  time  may  well  suffice  for  death  and  fate 
To  work  all  change  on  earth  1 — To  break 

the  ties 
Which  early  love  had  formed ;  and  to  bow 

down 

Th'  elastic  spirit,  and  to  blight  each  flowei 
Strewn  in  life's  crowded  path !—  But  be 

it  so! 

Be  it  enough  to  know  that  happiness 
Meets  thee  on  other  shores. 

Rai.  Where'er  I  roam 
Thou  shall  be  with  my  soul  I — Thy  soft  low 

voice 

Shall  rise  upon  remembrance,  like  a  strain 
Of  music  heard  in  boyhood,  bringing  back 
Life's  morning  freshness. — Oh  !  that  there 

should  be 
Things,   which  we  love  with  •  such  deep 

tenderness, 
But,  through  that  love,  to  learn  how  much 

of  woe 
Dwells  in  one  hour  like  this  ! — Yet  weep 

thou  not  I  [love, 

We  shall  meet  soon  ;  and  many  days,  deal 
Ere  I  depart. 

Con.  Then  there's  a  respite  still. 
Days !— not  a  day  but  in  its  course  may 

bring 

Some  strange  vicissitude  to  turn  aside 
Th'  impending  blow  we  shrink  from.    Fare 

thee  well. 

(Returning.) 

Oh,  Raimond  !  this  is  not  our  last  farewell  ? 

Thou  wouldst  not  so  deceive  me  ? 
Rai.  Doubt  me  not, 

Gentlest  and  best  beloved  !  we  meet  again. 
[Exit  CONSTANCE. 

Rai.  (after  a  pause) .  When  shall  I  breathe 
in  freedom,  and  give  scope 

To  those  untameable  and  burning  thoughts, 

And  restless  aspirations,  which  consume 

My  heart  i'  th'  land  of   bondage? — Ohl 
with  you, 

Ye  everlasting  images  of  power 

And  of  infinity  I  thou  blue-rolling  deep, 

And  you,  ye  stars  I  whose  beams  are  cha- 
racters 

Wherewith  the  oracles  of  fate  are  traced ; 

With  you  my  soul  finds  room,  and  casts 
aside 

The  weight  that  doth  oppress  her. — But 
my  thoughts 

Are  wandering  far ;  there  should  be  one  to 
share 

This  awful  and  majestic  solitude 

Of  sea  and  heaven  with  me. 


246 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 


(FROCTDA  enters,  unobserved.) 

It  is  the  hour 

He  named,  and  yet  he  comes  not 
Pro.  (coming forward).   He  is  here. 
Kai.    Now,   thou   mysterious  stranger, 

thou,  whose  glance 
Doth  fix  itself  on  memory,  and  pursue 
Thought,   like  a  spirit,   hauntirig  its  lone 

hours ; 
Reveal  thyself ;  what  art  thou  ? 

Pro.  One,  whose  life 
Has  been  a  troubled  stream,  and  made  its 

way 

Through  rocks  and  darkness,  and  a  thou- 
sand storms, 
With  still  a  mighty  aim. — But  now  the 

shades 

Of  eve  are  gathering  round  me,  and  I  come 
To  this,  my  native  land,  that  I  may  rest 
Beneath  its  vines  in  peace. 

Rai.  Seek'st  thou  for  peace  ? 
This  is  no  land  of  peace  ;  unless  that  deep 
And   voiceless  terror,   which  doth    freeze 

men's  thoughts 
Back  to  their  source,  and  mantle  its  pale 

mien 

With  a  dull  hollow  semblance  of  repose, 
May  so  be  called. 

Pro.  There  are  such  calms  full  oft 
Preceding  earthquakes..  But  I  have  not  been 
So  vainly  schooled  by 'fortune,  and  inured 
To  shape  my  course  on  peril's  dizzy  brink, 
That  it  should  irk  my  spirit  to  put  on 
Such  guise  of  hushed  submissiveness  as  best 
May  suit  the  troubled  aspect  of  the  times. 
Rai.    Why,    then,    thou    art   welcome, 

stranger  !  to  the  land 
Where  most  disguise  is  needful. — He  were 

bold 
Who  now  should  wear  his  thoughts  upon 

his  brow 

Beneath  Sicilian  skies.  The  brother's  eye 
Doth  search  distrustfully  the  brother's  face  ; 
And  friends  whose  undivided  lives  hare 

drawn 

From  the  same  past  their  long  remem- 
brances, 

Now  meet  in  terror,  or  no  more  ;  lest  hearts 
Full  to  o'erflowing,  in  their  social  hour, 
Should  pour  out  some  rash  word,  which 

roving  winds 
Might  whisper  to  our  conquerors. — This 

it  is 
To  M-ear  a  foreign  yoke. 

Pro.  It  matters  not 
To  him  who  holds  the  mastery  o'er  his  spirit, 
And  can  suppress  its  workings,    till  en- 
durance 


Becomes  as  nature.     We  can  tame  our- 
selves 

To  all  extremes,  and  there  is  that  in  life 
To  which  we  cling  with  most  tenacioui 

grasp, 

Even  when  its  lofty  claims  are  all  reduced 
To  the  poor  common  privilege  of  breath- 
ing.— 
Why  dost  thou  turn  away? 

Rai.  What  wouldst  thou  with  me? 
I  deemed  thee,  by  th'  ascendant  soul  which 

lived. 
And  made  its  throne  on  thy  commajiding 

brow, 
One  of  a  sovereign  nature,  which  would 

scorn 

So  to  abase  its  high  capacities 
For  aught  on  eaith. — But  thou  art  like  the 

rest. 

What  wouldst  thou  with  me? 
Pro.  I  would  counsel  thee. 
Thou  must  do  that  which  men— ay,  valiant 

men — 

Hourly  submit  to  do  ;  in  the  proud  court, 
And  in  the  stately  camp,  and  at  the  board 
Of  midnight  revellers,  whose  flushed  mirth 

is  all 
A  strife,  won  hardly. — Where  is  he  whose 

heart 
Lies  bare,  through  all  its  foldings,  to  the 

gaze 

Of  mortal  eye?— If  vengeance  wait  the  foe, 
Or  fate  th'  oppressor,  'tis  in  depths  con- 
cealed 

Beneath  a  smiling  surface. — Youth  1  I  say, 
Keep  thy  soul  down  I — Put  on  a  mask  I — 

'tis  worn 
Alike  by  power  and  weakness,  and  the 

smooth 

And  specious  intercourse  of  life  requires 
Its  aid  in  every  scene. 

Rai.  Away,  dissembler  I 
Life  hath  its  high  and  its  ignoble  tasks, 
Fitted  to  every  nature.     Will  the  free 
And  royal  eagle  stoop  to  learn  the  arts 
By  which  the  serpent  wins  his  spell-bound 

prey? 

It  is  because  I  will  not  clothe  myself 
In  a  vile  garb  of  coward  semblances, 
That  now,  e'en  now,  I  struggle  with  my 

heart, 

To  bid  what  most  I  love  a  long1  farewell, 
And  seek  my  country  on  some  distant  shore 
Where  such  things  are  unknown  ! 

Pro.  (exultingly).  Why,  this  is  joy  1 
After  long  conflict  with   the  doubts  and 

fears, 
And  the  poor  subtleties  of  meaner  minds. 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 


24? 


To  meet  a  spirit  whose  bold  elastic  wing 
Oppression    hath     not     crushed. — High- 
hearted youth  I 

Thy  father,  should  his  footsteps  e'er  again 
Visit  these  shores — 

Rai.  My  father  !  what  of  him  * 
Speak  I  was  he  known  to  thee  1 

Pro.  In  distant  lands 
With  him  I've  traversed  many  a  wild,  and 

looked 
On  many  a  danger  ;   and  the  thought  that 

thou 

Wert  smiling  then  in  peace,  a  happy  boy, 
Oft  through  the  storm  hath  cheered  him. 

Rai.  Dost  thou  deem 
That  still  he  lives  ?— Oh  !  if  it  be  in  chains, 
In  woe,  in  poverty's  obscurest  cell, 
Say  but  he  lives — and  I  will  track  his  steps 
E'en  to  the  earth's  verge  ! 

Pro.  It  may  be  that  he  lives  ; 
Though  long  his  name  hath  ceased  to  be  a 

word 

Familiar  in  man's  dwellings.  But  its  sound 
Mayyet  be  heard ! — Raimond  di  Procida, — 
Rememberest  thou  thy  father  ? 

Rai.  From  my  mind 
His  form   hath  faded  long,  for  years  have 

passed 

Since  he  went  forth  to  exile  :   but  a  vague, 
Yet  powerful,  image  of  deep  majesty. 
Still  dimly  gathering  round  each  thought 

of  him, 
Doth  claim  instinctive  reverence  ;  and  my 

love 

For  his  inspiring  name  hath  long  become 
Part  of  my  being 

Pro.  Raimond  I  doth  no  voice 
Speak  to  thy  soul,  and  tell  thee  whose  the 

arms 
That  would  enfold  thee  now  ? — My  son  : 

my  son  I 
Rai.    Father  I— O    God  I— my     father ! 

Now  I  know 
Why  my  heart  woke  before  thee ! 

Pro.  Oh  1  this  hour 
Makes  hope  reality ;  for  thou  art  all 
My  dreams  had  pictured  thee ! 

Rai.  Yet  why  so  long, 
Even  as  a  stranger,  hast  thou  crossed  my 

paths, 
One  nameless  and  unknown? — and  yet  I 

felt 

Each  pulse  within  me  thrilling  to  thy  voice; 
Pro.  Because  I  would  not  link  thy  fate 

with  mine, 

Till  I  could  hail  the  day-spring  of  that  hope 
Which  now  is  gathering  round  us.' — Listen, 

youth  I 


Thou  hast  told  me  of  a  subdued,   and 

scorned, 
And  trampled    land,  whose  very  soul  is 

bowed 
And  fashioned  to  her  chains: — but  /tell 

thee 

Of  a  most  generous  and  devoted  land, 
A  land  of  kindling  energies  ;  a  land 
Of  glorious  recollections  I — proudly  true 
To  the  high  memory  of  her  ancient  kings, 
And  rising,  in  majestic  scorn,  to  cast 
Her  alien  bondage  off  I 
Rat.  And  where  is  this? 
Pro.  Here,  in  our  isle,  our  own    fair 

Sicily  I 

Her  spirit  is  awake,  and  moving  on, 
In  its  deep  silence,  mightier,  to  regain 
Her  place  amongst  the  nations  ;  and  the 

hour 

Of  that  tremendous  effort  is  at  hand. 
Rai.  Can    it    be    thus  indeed? — Thou 

pouiest  new  life 
Through  all  my  burning  veins ! — I  am  as 

one 

Awakening  from  a  chill  and  death-like  sleep 
To  the  full  glorious  day. 

Pro.  Thou  shalt  hear  more  I 
Thou  shalt  hear  things  which   would,  -\ 

which  will  arouse 

The  proud,  free  spirits  of  our  ancestors 
E'en  from  their  marble  rest.     Yet  mark  me 

well  ! 

Be  secret  ! — for  along  my  destined  path 
I  yet  must  darkly  move. — Now,  follow  me; 
And  join  a  band  of  men  in  whose  high 

hearts 
There  lies  a  nation's  strength. 

Rai.  My  noble  father  1 
Thy  words  haVe  given  me  all  for  which  1 

pined — 
An  aim,  a  hope,   a  purpose  1 — And  the 

blood 
Doth  rush  in  warmer  currents  through  my 

veins, 

As  a  bright  fountain  from  its  icy  bonds 
Bv  the  quick  sun-stroke  freed. 

Pro.  Ay,  this  is  well  I 
Such  natures  burst  men's  chains  ! — Now, 

follow  me.  [Exeunt. 

ACT  THE  SECOND. 
SCENE  I. — Apartment  in  a  Palate. 

ERIBERT.    CONSTANCE. 
Con.  Will  you  not  hear  me  ? — Oh  1  that 

they  who  need 
i  Hourly  forgiveness,  they  who  do  but  live, 


248 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO.' 


While  Mercy's  voice,  beyond  th'  eternal 

stars, 
Wins  the  great  Judge  to  listen,  should  be 

thus, 

In  their  vain  exercise  of  pageant  power, 
Hard  and  relentless  ! — Gentle  brother,  yet 
Tis  in  your  choice  to  imitate  that  Heaven 
Whose  noblest  joy  is  pardon. 

Eri.  Tis  too  late. 
You  have  a  soft  and  moving  voice,  which 

pleads 

With  eloquent  melody — but  they  must  die. 
Con.  What,  die! — for  words?  for  breath, 

which  leaves  no  trace 
To  sully  the  pure  air,  wherewith  it  blends. 
And  is,  being  uttered,  gone  ? — Why,  'twere 

enough 

For  such  a  venial  fault,  to  be  deprived 
One  little  day  of  man's  free  heritage, 
Heaven's  warm  and  sunny  light ! — Oh  !  if 

you  deem 

That  evil  harbours  in  their  souls,  at  least 
Delay  the  stroke,  till  guilt,  made  manifest, 
Shall  bid  stern  Justice  wake. 

Eri.  I  am  not  one 
Of  those  weak  spirits,  that  timorously  keep 

watch 

For  fair  occasions,  thence  to  borrow  hues 
Of  virtue  for  their  deeds.     My  school  hath 

been 
Where  power  sits  crowned  and  armed. — 

And,  mark  me,  sister  ! 
To  a  distrustful.nature  it  might  seem 
Strange  that  your  lips  thus  earnestly  should 

plead 

For  these  Sicilian  rebels.     O'er  -my  being 
Suspicion  holds  no  power. — And  yet  take 

note. — 

I  have  said,  and  they  must  die. 
Con.   Have  you  no  fear  ? 
Eri.  Of  what  ?— that  heaven  should  fall? 
Con.  No  I — but  that  earth 
Should  arm  in  madness. — Brother  !  I  have 

seen 
Dark  eyes  bent  on  you,  e'en   'midst  festal 

throngs,  [glance, 

With    such    deep    hatred    settled  in  their 
My  heart  hath  died  within  me. 

Eri    Am  I  then 
To  pause,  and  doubt,  and  shrink,  because 

a  girl, 

A  dreaming  girl,  hath  trembled  at  a  look? 
Con.  Oh  I  looks  are  no  illusions,   when 

the  soul, 
Which  may  not  speak  in  words,  can  find 

no  way 

But  theirs  to  liberty  I — Have  not  these  me*n 
Brave  sons  or  noble  brothers  ? 


Eri.  Yes  I  whose  name 
It  rests  with  me  to  make  a  word  of  fear, 
A  nound  forbidden  'midst  the  hauntsof  men, 
Con.  But  not  forgotten  ! — Ah  I  beware, 

beware  I — 

Nay,  look  not  sternly  on  me. — There  is  one 
Of  that  devoted  band,  who  yet  will  need 
Years  to  be  ripe  for  death.     He  is  a  youth, 
A  very  boy,  on  whose  unshaded  cheek 
The  spring-time  glow  is  lingering.     'Twas 

but  now 

His  mother  left  me,  with  a  timid  hope 
Just  dawning  in  her  breast ;  and  I — I  dared 
To  foster  its  faint  spark.  — You  smile? — 

Oh  I  then 
He  will  be  saved  ! 

Eri.  Nay,  I  but  smiled  to  think 
What  a  fond  fool  is  hope  1 — She  may  be 

taught 
To  deem  that  the  great  sun  will  change  his 

course 
To  work  her  pleasure ;   or  the  tomb  give 

back 
Its  inmates  to  her  arms. — In  sooth,  'tis 

strange  I 
Yet,  with  your  pitying  heart,  you  should  not 

thus 
Have  mocked  the  boy's  sad  mother. — I 

have  said 
You  should  not  thus  have  mocked  her  I — 

Now,  farewell.  [Exit  ERIBERT. 

Con.  Oh,  brother  I  hard  of  heart ! — for 

deeds  like  these 

There  must  be  fearful  chastening,  if  on  high 
Justice  doth  hold  her  state. — And  I  must  tell 
Yon  desolate  mother  that  her  fair  young  son 
Is  thus  to  perish  ! — Haply  the  dread  tale 
May  slay  her  too; — for  Heaven  is  merciful. — 
Twill  be  a  bitter  task ! 

[Exit  CONSTANCE. 

SCENE. II. — A  ruined  Tower,  surrounded 
by   Woods. 

PROCIDA.    VITTORJA. 

Pro.  Thy  vassals  are  prepared,  then  ? 
Vit.  Yes,  they  wait 
Thy  summons  to  their  task. 

Pro.  Keep  the  flame  bright, 
But  hidden,  till  its  hour. — Wouldst   thoo 

dare,  lady, 

To  join  our  councils  at  the  night's  mid- 
watch, 

In  the  lone  cavern  by  the  rock-hewn  cross? 
Vit.  What  should  I  shrink  from  ? 
Pro.  Oh  I  the  forest  paths 
Are  dim  and  wild,  e'en  when  the  sunshine 
streams 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 


249 


Through  their  high  arches:  butwhen^ower- 

ful  night 
Comes,  with  her  cloudy  phantoms,  and  hef 

pale 
Uncertain    moonbeams,   and  the    hollow 

sounds 

Of  her  mysterious  winds ;  their  aspect  then- 
Is  of  another  and  more  fearful  world  ; 
A  realm  of  indistinct  and  shadowy  forms, 
Wakening  strange   thoughts,   almost   too 

much  for  this, 
Our  frail  terrestrial  nature. 

Vit.  Well  I  know 
All  this,  and  more.   Such  scenes  have  been 

th'  abodes 
Where  through  the  silence  of  my  soul  have 

passed 

Voices,  and  visions  from  the  sphere  of  those 
That  have  to  die  no  more  1 — Nay,  doubt  it 

not! 

If  such  unearthly  intercourse  hath  e'er 
Been  granted  to  our  nature,  'tis  to  hearts 
Whose  love  is  with  the  dead.    They,  they 

alone, 

Unmaddened  could  sustain  the  fearful  joy 
And  glory  of  its  trances  I — at  the  hour 
Which  makes  guilt  tremulous,  and  peoples 

earth 

And  air  with  infinite,'  viewless  multitudes, 
I  will  be  with  thee,  Procida, 

Pro.  Thy  presence  [souls 

Will  kindle  nobler  thoughts,  and,  in  the 
Of  suffering  and  indignant  men,  arouse 
That  which  may  strengthen  our  majestic 

cause  [the  spot  ? 

With  yet  a  deeper  power, — Know'st  thou 

Vit.    Full  wdll.      There  is  no  scene  so 

wild  and  lone 

In  these  dim  woods,  but  I  have  visited 
Its  Dangled  shades. 
Pro.  At  midnight,  then,  we  meet. 

[Exit  PROCIDA. 
Vit.  Why  should  I  fear  ?— Thou  wilt  be 

with  me,  thou, 

Th'  immortal  dream  and  shadow  of  my  soul, 
Spirit  of  him  I  love  !  that  meet'st  me  still 
In  loneliness  and  silence  ;  in  the  noon 
Of  the  wild  night,  and  in  the  forest-depths, 
Known  but  to  me  ;  for  whom  thou  givV 

the  winds 

And  sighing  leaves  a  cadence  of  thy  voice, 
Till  my  heart  faints  with  that  o'erthrilling 

joy  I— 

Thou  wilt  be  with  me  there,  and  lend  my  lips 
Words,  fiery  words,  to  flush  dark  cheeks 

with  shame, 
That  thou  art  unavenged  I 

[Exit  VrrrORiA. 


SCENE  III.— A  Chapel,  with  a  Monument 
on  which  is  laid  a  Sword. — Moonlight. 

PROCIDA.    RAIMOND.    MONTALBA. 

Man.  And  know  you  not  my  story  ? 
Pro.  In  the  lands 
Where  I  have  been  a  wanderer,  your  deep 

wrongs 
Were  numbered  with  our  country's ;   but 

their  tale 

Came  only  in  faint  echoes  to  mine  ear. 
I  would  fain  hear  it  now. 

Man.  Hark  !  while  you  spoke, 
There  was  avoice-like  murnmr  in  the  breeze, 
Which  even  like  death  came  o'er  me : — 'twas 

a  night 
Like  this,  of  clouds  contending  with  the 

moon, 

A  night  of  sweeping  winds,  of  rustling  leaves, 
And  swift  wild  shadows  floating  o'er  the 

earth, 
Clothed  with  a  phantom-life  ;  when,  after 

years 

Of  battle  and  captivity,  I  spurred 
My  good  steed  homewards. — Oh  !    what 

lovely  dreams 
Rose  on  my  spirit  1 — There  were  tears  and 

smiles, 
But  all  of  joy  I — And  there  were  bounding 

steps, 
And  clinging  arms,  whose  passionate  clasp 

of  love 
Doth  twine  so  fondly  round  the  warrior's 

neck. 
When  his  plumed  helm  is  doffed. — Hence, 

feeble,  thoughts  1 — 
I  am  sterner  now,  yet  once  such  dreams 

were  mine  I 

JRai.  And  were  they  realized  ? 
Man.  Youth  I  Ask  me  not, 
But  listen ! — I  drew  near  my  own  fair  home ; 
There  was  no  light  along  its  walls,  no  sound 
Of  bugle  pealing  from  the  watch-tower's  ' 

height 
At  my  approach,  although  my  trampling 

steed 
Made  the  earth  ring ;  yet  the  wide  gates 

were  thrown 

All  open. — Then  my  heart  misgave  me  first, 
And  on  the  threshold  of  my  silent  hall 
I  paused  a  momemt,  and  the  wind  swept  by 
With  the  same  deep  and  dirge-like  tone 

which  pierced 

My  soul  e'en  now. — I  called— my  struggling 
)       voice 
Gave  utterance  to  my  wife's,  my  children's, 

names ;  [strength, 

They  answered  not — I  roused  my  failing 


250 


THE  VESPES8  OF  PALERMO. 


And  wildly  rushed  within — and  they  were 

there. 

Rai.  And  was  all  well  ? 
Man.  Ay,  well ! — for  death  is  well, 
And  they  were  all  at  rest  1 — I  see  them  yet, 
Pale  in  their  innocent  beauty,  which  had 

failed 
To  stay  th'  assassin's  arm  ! 

Rai.  Oh,  righteous  Heaven  I 
Who  had  done  this  ? 
Man.  Who? 

Pro.  Canst  thou  question,  who  1 
Whom  hath  the  earth  to  perpetrate  such 

deeds, 

In  the  cold-blooded  revelry  of  crime, 
But  those  whose.yoke  is  on  us? 

Rai.  Man  of  woe  ! 

What  words  hath  pity  for  despair  like  thine? 
Man.  Pity  ! — fond  youth  !— My  soul  dis- 
dains the  grief 

Which  doth  unbosom  its  deep  secrecies, 
To  ask  a  vain  companionship  of  tears, 
And  so  to  be  relieved  ! 

Pro.  For  woes  like  these 
There  is  no  sympathy  but  vengeance. 

Man.  None  I 
Therefore  I  brought  you  hither,  that  your 

hearts 
Might  catch  the  spirit  of  the  scene ! — Look 

round  t 

We  are  in  the  awful  presence  of  the  dead  ; 
Within  yon  tomb  they  sleep,  whose  gentle 

blood 
Weighs  down  the  murderer's  soul. —  They 

sleep  I— but  I 
Am  wakeful  o'er  their  dustj — I  laid  my 

sword, 
Without  its  sheath,  on   their  sepulchral 

stone, 

As  on  an  altar  ;  and  th'  eternal  stars, 
And  heaven,  and  night,  bore  witness  to  my 

vow, 

No  more  to  wield  it  save  in  one  great  cause, 
The  vengeance  of  the  grave ! — And  now 

the  hour 
Of  that  atonement  comes  ! 

[He  takes  the  sword  from  the  tomb. 
Rai.  My  spirit  bums  I 
And  my  full    heart    almost    to  bursting 

swells. — 
Oh  !  for  the  day  of  battle» 

Pro.  Raimond  !  they 
Whose  souls  are  dark  with  guiltless  blood 

must  die ; — 
But  not  in  "battle. 
Rai.  How,  my  father  ! 
Pro.  No! 
Look  on  that  sepulchre,  and  it  will  teach 


Another  lesson.— But  th'  appointed  hour 
Advances.  — Thou  wilt  join  our  chosen  band, 
Noble  Montalba  ? 

Man.  Leave  me'for  a  time, 
That  I  may  calm  my  soul  by  intercourse 
With  the  still  dead,  before  I  mix  with  men, 
And  with  their  passions.     I  have  nursed  for 

years, 

In  silence  and  in  solitude,  the  flame 
Which  doth  consume  me ;  and  it  is  not  used 
Thus  to  be    looked    or    breathed  on. — 

Procida  ! 

I  would  be  tranquil — or  appear  so — ere 
I  join  your  brave  confederates;    Through 

my  heart 
There  struck  a  pang — but  it  will  soon  have 

passed.  [cross. 

Pro.  Remember  I — in  the  cavern  by  the 
Now,  follow  me,  my  son. 

[Exeunt  PROCIDA  and  RAIMOND. 
Man.  (after  a  pause, leaning  on  the  tomb}: 

Said  he, "  my  son?" — Now,  why  should 

this  man's  life 

Go  down  in  hope,  thus  resting  on  a  son, 
And  I  be  desolate  ? — How  strange  a  sound 
Was  that — "  my  son  I" — I  had  a  boy,  who 

might 

Have  worn  as  free  a  soul  upon  his  brow 
As   doth  this  youth.  —  Why  should  the 

thought  of  him 
Thus  haunt  me  ? — when  I  tread  the  peopled 

ways 

Of  life  again,  I  shall  be  passed  each  hour 
By  fathers  with  their  children,  and  I  must 
Learn  calmly  to  look  on. — Methinks 'twere 

now 

A  gloomy  consolation  to  behold 
All  men  bereft,  as  I  am  ! — But  away. 
Vain  thoughts ! — One  task  is  left  for  blighted 

hearts, 
And  it  shall  be  fulfilled.  [Exit  MONTALBA. 

SCENE  IV.  —  Entrance  of  a  Caw  sur~ 
rounded  by  Rocks  and  Forests.  A  rude 
Cross  seen  amongst  the  JRocks. 

PROCIDA.    RAIMOND. 

Pro.  And  is  it  thus,  beneath  the  solemn 

skies 

Of  midnight,  and  in  solitary  caves, 
Where  the  wild  forest-creatures  make  theii 

lair,— 

Is't  thus  the  chiefs  of  Sicily  must  hold 
The  councils  of  their  country  ? 

Rai.  Why,  such  scenes 
In  their  primeval  majesty,  beheld 
Thus  by  faint  starlight,  and  the  partial  glare 
Of  the  red-streaming  lava,  will  insphe 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 


2&1 


Far  deeper  thoughts  than  pillared  halls, 
wherein 

Statesmen  hold  weary  vigils.  — Are  we  not 

O'ershadowed  by  that  Etna,  which  of  old, 

With  its  dread  prophecies,  hath  struck  dis- 
may 

Through  tyrants'  hearts,  and  bade  them 
seek  a  home 

In  other  climes  ?-^Hark  I  from  its  depths 
e'en  pow 

What  hollow  moans  are  sent  ! 

Enter  MONTALBA,  GUIDO,  and  other 
SICILIANS. 

Pro.  Welcome,  my  brave  associates  ! — 

We  can  share 

The  wolf's  wild  freedom  here  I — Th'  oppres- 
sor's haunt 
Is  not  'midst  rocks  and  caves.    Are  we  all 

met? 

Si£.  All,  all  I  [gust, 

Pro.  The  torchlight,  swayed  by  every 

But  dimly  shows  your  features: — Where 

is  he 

Who  from  his  battleshad  returned  to  breathe 
Once  more,  without  a  corslet,  and  to  meet 
The  voices,  and  the  footsteps,  and  the 

smiles, 
Blent  with  his  dreams  of  home? — Of  that 

dark  tale 
The  rest  is  known  to  vengeance  ! — Art  thou 

here, 

With  thy  deep  wrongs  and  resolute  despair, 
Childless  Montalba  ? 

Mon.  (advancing).  He  is  at  thy  side. 
Call  on  that  desolate  father,  in  the  hour 
When  his  revenge  is  nigh. 

Pro.  Thou,  too,  come  forth, 
From  thine  own  halls  an  exile  I — Dost  thou 

make 

The  mountain-fastnesses  thy  dwelling  still, 
While  hostile  banners,  q|er  thy  rampart 

walls, 
Wave  their  proud  blazonry  ? 

First  Sic.  Even  so.     I  stood 
Last  night  before  my  own  ancestral  towers 
An  unknown  outcast,  while  the  tempest  beat 
On  my  bare  head — what  recked  it  ? — There 

was  joy 

Within,  and  revelry ;  the  festive  lamps 
.  Were  streaming  from  each  turret,  and  gay 

songs, 
I*  th'  stranger's  tongue,  made  mirth.    They 

little  deemed 
Who  heard  their  melodies  ! — but  there  are 

thoughts 
Best  nurtured  in  the  wild  ;  there  are  dread 


Known  to  the  mountain-echoes. — Procida  1 
Call  on  the  outcast  when  revenge  is  nigh. 
Pro.  I  knew  a  young  Sicilian,  one  whcse 

heart 

Should  be  all  fire.    On  that  most  guilty  day, 
When,  with  our  martyred  Conradin,  the 

flower 
Of  the  land's  knighthood  perished  ;  he,  of 

whom 
I  speak,  a  weeping  boy,  whose  innocent 

tears 

Melted  a  thousand  hearts  that  dared  not  aid, 
Stood  by  the  scaffold,  with  extended  arms, 
Calling  upon  his  father,  whose  last  look 
Turned  full  on  him  its  parting  agony. 
That  father's  blood  gushed  o'er  him  ! — and 

the  boy 
Then  dried  his  tears,  and,  with  a  kindling 

eye, 
And  a  proud  flush  on  his  young  cheek, 

looked  up 
To  the  bright  heaven. — Doth  he  remember 

still 

That  bitter  hour? 
Second   Sic.     He    bears    a   sheathlesa 

sword  !— 

Call  on  the  orphan  when  revenge  is  nigh. 
Pro.  Our    band    shows    gallantly — but 

there  are  men 
Who  should  be  with  us  now,  had  they  not 

dared 

In  some  wild  moment  of  festivity 
To  give  their  full  hearts  way,  and  breathe 

a  wish 
For    freedom  !  —  and     some    traitor  —  it 

might  be 
A  breeze  perchance — bore  the  forbidden 

sound 

To  Eribert : — so  they  must  die — unless 
Fate  (who  at  times  is  wayward)  should 

select 

Some  other  victim  first ! — But  have  they  not 
Brothers  or  sons  amongst  us  ? 

GUI.  Look  on  me ! 

I  have  a  brother,  a  young  high-souled  boy, 
And  beautiful  'as  a  sculptor's  dream,  with 

brow 
That  wears,  amidst  its  dark  rich  curls,  the 

stamp 

Of  inborn  nobleness.    In  truth,  he  is 
A  glorious    creature  I— But  his  doom  is 

sealed 
With  theirs  of  whom  you  spoke ;   and  I 

have  knelt — 
Ay,  scorn   me  not  1    'twas  for  his  life — I 

knelt 

E'en  at  the  viceroy's  feet,  and  he  put  on 
That  heartless  laugh  of  cold  malignity 


252 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALEEMO. 


We  know  so  well,  and  spurned  me.    But 

the  stain 
Of  shame  like  this,  takes'  blood  to  wash 

it  off, 

And  thus  it  shall  be  cancelled ! — Call  on  me, 

When  the  stern  moment  of  revenge  is  nigh. 

Pro.  I  call  upon  thee  now  I    The  land's 

high  soul 

Is  roused,  and  moving  onward,  like  a  breeze 
Or  a  swift  sunbeam,  kindling  nature's  hues 
To  deeper  life  before  it.     In  his  chains, 
The  peasant  dreams  of  freedom  I — ay,  'tis 

thus 

Oppression  fans  th'  imperishable  flame 
With  most  unconscious  hands. — No  praise 

be  hers 

For  what  she  blindly  works  ! — When  sla- 
very's cup 
O'erflows  its  bounds,  the  creeping  poison, 

meant 
To  dull  our  senses,  through  each  burning 

vein 

Pours  fever,  lending  a  delirious  strength 
To  burst  man's  fetters — and  they  shall  be 

burst  I 
I  have  hoped,  when  hope  seemed  frenzy ; 

but  a  power 
Abides  in  human   will,  when  bent  with 

strong 

Unswerving  energy  on  one  great  aim, 
To  make  and  rule  its  fortunes ! — I  have  been 
A  wanderer  in  the  fulness  of  my  years, 
A  restless  pilgrim  of  the  earth  and  seas, 
Gathering  the  generous  thoughts  of  other 

lands, 

To  aid  our  holy  cause.     And  aid  is  near  : 
But  we  must  give  the  signal.     Now,  before 
The  majesty  of  yon  pure  Heaven,  whose  eye 
Is  on  our  hearts,  whose  righteous  arm  be- 
friends 
The  arm  that  strikes  for  freedom  ;   speak  1 

decree 
The  fate  of  our  oppressors. 

Man.  Let  them  fall 
When  dreaming  least  of  peril  1 — When  the 

heart, 

Basking  in  sunny  pleasure,  doth  forget 
That  hate  may  smile,  but  sleeps  not. — Hide 

the  sword 

With  a  thick  veil  of  myrtle,  and  in  halls 
Of  banqueting,   where    the  full  wine-cup 

shines 

Red  in  the  festal  torchlight ;   meet  We  there, 

And  bid  them  welcome  to  the  feast  of  death. 

Pro.  Thy  voice  is  low  and  broken,  and 

thy  words 

Scarce  meet  our  ears. 
Mon.  Why,  then,  I  thus  repeat 


Their  import.     Let  th'  avenging    sword 

burst  forth 
In  some  free  festal  hour,  and  woe  to  him 
Who  first  shall  spare  I 

Rai.  Must  innocence  and  guilt 
Perish  alike  ? 

Man.  Who  talks  of  innocence  ? 
When  hath   their  hand   been  stayed  fct 

innocence  ? 
Let  them  all  perish  ! — Heaven  will  choose 

its  oWn. 
Why  should    their   children    live  ? — The 

earthquake  whelms 
Its    undistinguished     thousands,    making 

graves 

Of  peopled  cities  in  its  path— and  this 
Is  Heaven's  dread   justice — ay,  and  it  is 

well! 
Why  then  should  we  be  tender,  when  the 

skies 
Deal  thus  with  man  ? — What,  if  the  infant 

bleed  ? 
Is  there  not  power  to  hush  the  mother's 

pangs  ? 
What,   if   the   youthful   bride  perchance 

should  fall 
In  her  triumphant   beauty? — Should  we 

pause  ? 

As  if  death  were  not  mercy  to  the  pangs 
Which  make  our  lives  the  records  of  our  foes  ? 
Let  them  all  perish  I — And  if  one  be  found 
Amidst  our  band,  to  stay  th'  avenging  steel 
For  pity,  or  remerse,  or  boyish  love, 
Then  be  his  doom  as  theirs  J         \A  pause. 
Why  gaze  ye  thus  ? 
Brethren,  what  means  your  silence? 

Sic.  Be  it  so  ! 

If  one  amongst  us  stay  th'  avenging  steel 
For  love  or  pity,  be  his  doom  as  theirs  1 
Pledge  we  our  faith  to  this  I 
RAIMOND     (rushing    forward,    indig- 
nantly}. Our  faith  to  this  I 
No  !  I  but  dreamt  I  heard  it ! — Can  it  be  ? 
My  countrymen,  my  father  ! — Is  it  thus 
That  freedom  should  be  won  ? — Awake  1 

awake 

To  loftier  thoughts  ! — Lift  up,  exultingly, 
On  the  crowned  heights,  and  to  the  sweep- 
ing winds, 
Your  glorious  banner ! — Let  your  trumpet's 

blast 
Make  the  tombs  thrill  with  echoes  1    Call 

aloud, 
Proclaim  from  all  your  hills,  the  land  shall 

bear 

The  stranger's  yoke  no  longer  ! — What  is  he 
Who  carries  on  his  practised  lip  a  smile, 
Beneath  his  vest  a  dagger,  which  but  waits 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 


253 


Till  the  heart  bounds  with  joy,  to  still  its 

beatings  ? 
fhat  which  our  nature's  instinct  doth  recoil 

from, 
And  our  blood  curdle  at — ay,  yours  and 

mine — 
A  murderer  !— Heard  ye  ? — Shall  that  name 

with  ours 
Go  down  to  after  days  ? — Oh,  friends  !  a 

cause 
Like  that  for  which  we  rise,  hath  made 

bright  names 

Of  the  elder-time  as  rallying-words  to  men, 
Sounds  full  of  might  and  immortality  1 
And  shall  not  ours  be  such  ? 

Man,  Fond  dreamer,  peace ' 
Fame  1    What  is  fame  ? — Will  our  uncon- 
scious dust 

Start  into  thrilling  rapture  from  the  grave 
At  the  vain  breath  of  praise  1 — I  tell  thee, 

youth, 

Our  souls  are  parched  with  agonizing  thirst, 
Which  must  be  quenched  though  death 

were  in  the  draught : 
We  must  have  vengeance,  for  our  foes  have 

left 
No  other  joy  unblighted. 

Pro.  Oh  I  my  son, 
The  time  is  past  for  such  high  dreams  as 

thine. 
Thou  know'st   not  whom  we  deal ;  with. 

Knightly  faith 
And    chivalrous    honour   are  but  things 

whereon 

They  cast  disdainful  pity.    We  must  meet 
Falsehood  with  wiles,  and  insult  with  re- 
venge. 
And,  for  our  names — whate'er  the  deeds, 

by  which 

We  burst  our  bondage — is  it  not  enough 
That  in  the  chronicle  of  days  to  come, 
We,  through  a  bright  "  For  ever,"  shall  be 

called 
The  men  who  saved  their  country  ? 

Rai.  Many  a  land 
Hath  bowed  beneath  the  yoke,  and  then 

arisen, 

As  a  strong  lion  rending  silken  bonds, 
And  on  the  open  field,  before  high  Heaven, 
Won  such  majestic  vengeance,  as  hath  made 
Its  name  a  power  on  earth. — Ay,  nations 

own 

It  is  enough  of  glory  to  be  called 
The  children  of  the  mighty,  who  redeemed 
Their  native  soil — but  rot  by  means  like 

these.. 

Man.   I  vhave  no  children*— Of  Mon- 
'  tr -Ifoa's  blood 


Not  one  red  drop  doth  circle  through  the 

veins  [/  to  do 

Of  aught  that  breathes ! — Why,  what  have 
With  far  futurity  ? — My  spirit  lives 
But  in  the  past. — Away !  when  thou  dos» 

stand 

On  this  fair  earth,  as  doth  a  blasted  tree 
Which  the  warm  sun  revives  not,  then  return, 
Strong  in  thy  desolation  ;  but,  till  then, 
Thou  art  not  for  our  purpose  ;  we  have  need 
Of  more  unshrinking  hearts. 

Rai.  Montalba,  know, 
I  shrink  from  crime  alone.    Oh  1  if  my  voice 
Might  yet  have  power  amongst  you,  I  would 

say, 

Associates,  leaders,  be  avenged  I  but  yet 
As  knights,  as  warriors  ! 

Mon.  Peace  I  have  we  not  borne 
Th  indelible  taint  of  contumely  and  chains* 
We  are  not  knights  and  warriors. — OUT 

bright  crests 
Have  been  denied  and  trampled  to  the 

earth.  L06 

Boy !  we  are  slaves — and  our  revenge  shall 
Deep  as  a  slave's  disgrace. 

Rai.  Why,  then,  farewell : 
I  leave  you  to  your  counsels.    He  that  still 
Would  hold  his  lofty  nature  undebased, 
And  his  name  pure,  were  but  a  loiterer  here. 
Pro.  And  is  it  thus  indeed  ? — dost  thou. 

forsake 
Our  cause,  my  son  ? 

Rai.  Oh,  father  !  what  proud  hopes 
This  hour  hath  blighted ! — yet,  whate'er 

betide, 

It  is  a  noble  privilege  to  look  up 
Fearless  in  heaven's  bright  face — and  this 

is  mine, 
And  shall  be  still.—          {Exit  RAIMOND. 

Pro.  He's  gone  1— Why,  let  it  be  1 
I  trust  our  Sicily  hath  many  a  son 
Valiant  as  mine. — Associates"  1  'tis  decreed 
Our.foes  shall  perish.  We  have  but  to  name 
The  hour,  the  scene,  the  signal. 

Mon.  It  should  be 
In  the  full  city,  when  some  festival 
Hath  gathered  throngs,  and  lulled  infatuate 

hearts 

To  brief  security.     Hark !  is  there  not 
A  sound  of  hurrying  footsteps  on  the  breeze? 
We  are  betrayed. — Who  art  thou? 

ViTTORlA  enters. 

Pro.  One  alone 

Should  be  thus  daring.     Lady,  lift  the  veil 
That  shades  thy  noble  brow. 

[Ske  raises  her  veil,  the  Sicilian! 
draw  lack  with  resfcct. 


254 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 


Sic.  Th'  affianced  bride 
Of  our  lost  King  ! 

Pro.  And  more,  Montalba ;  know 
Within  this  form  there  dwells  a  soul  as  high, 
As  warriors  in  their  battles  e'er  have  proved, 
Or  patriots  on  the  scaffold. 

Vit.  Valiant  men  ! 

I  come  to  ask  your  aid.    Ye  see  me,  one 
Whose   widowed    youth    hath    all    been 

consecrate 

To  a  proud  sorrow,  and  whose  life  is  held 
In  token  and  memorial  of  the  dead. 
Say,  is  it  meet  that,  lingering  thus  on  earth, 
But  to  behold  one  great  atonement  made, 
And  keep  one  name  from  fading  in  men's 

hearts, 

A  tyrant's  will  should  force  me  to  profane 
Heaven's  altar  with  unhallowed  vows— and 

live. 

Stung  by  the  keen,  unutterable  scorn 
Of  my  own  bosom,  live — another's  bride? 
Sic.  Never,  oh  never  1— fear  not,  noble 

ladyj 
Worthy  of  Conradin ! 

Vit.  'Yet  hear  me  still.  [tears 

His  bride,  that  Eribert's,  vrho  notes  our 
With  his  insulting  eye  of  cold  derision, 
And  could  he  pierce  the  depths  where  feel- 
ing works, 

Would  number  e'en  our  agonies  as  crimes.  — 
Say,  is  this  meet  ? 

Gut.  We  deemed  these  nuptials,  lady, 
Thy  willing  choice  ;  but  'tis  a  joy  to  find 
Thou  art  noble  still.  Fear  not ;  by  all  our 

wrongs 
This  shall  not  be. 

Pro,  Vittoria,  thou  art  come 
To  ask  our  aid,  but  we  have  need  of  thine. 
Know,  the  completion  of  our  high  designs 
Requires — a  festival ;  and  it  must  be 
Thy  bridal ! 
Vit.  Procidal 
Pro.  Nay,  start  not  thus. 
Tis  no  hard  task  to  bind  your  raven  hair 
With  festal  garlands,  and  to  bid  the  song 
Rise,  and  the  wine-cup  rnantje.  No— noryet 
To  meet  your  suitor  at  the  glittering  shrine, 
Where  death,  not  love,  awaits  him  I 

Vit.  Can  my  soul 
Dissemble  thus  ? 

Pro.  We  have  no  other  means 
Of  winning  our  great  birthright  back  from 

those 

Who  have  usurped  it,  than  so  lulling  them 
Into  vain  confidence,  that  they  may  deem 
All  wrongs  forgot ;  and  this  may  best  be 

done 
By  what  I  ask  of  thee. 


Man.  Then  will  we  mix 
,Vith  the  flushed  revellers,  making  then 

gay  feast 
The  harvest  of  the  grave. 

Vit.  A  bridal  day  !— 
Must  it  be  so  ? — Then,  chiefs,of  Sicily, 
[  bid  you  to  my  nuptials  !  but  be  there 
With  your  bright  swords  unsheathed,  for 

thus  alone 
My  guests  should  be  adorned. 

Pro.  And  let  thy  banquet 
Be  soon  announced,  for  there  aru  noble  men 
Sentenced  to  die,  for  whom  we  fain  would 

purchase 
Reprieve  with  other  blood. 
Vit.  Be  it  then  the  day 
Preceding  that  appointed  for  their  doom. 
Gui.  My   brother,   thou    shalt   live  I— 

Oppression  boasts 

No  gift  of  prophecy !— It  but  remains 
To  name  our  signal ,  chiefs  1 
Man.  The  Vesper-bell. 
Pro.  Even  so,   the  Vesper-bell,  whos< 

deep-toned  peal 
Is  heard  o'er  land  and  wave.    Part  of  ovu 

band, 

Wearing  the  guise  of  antic  revelry, 
Shall  enter,  as  in  some  fantastic  pageant/ 
The  halls  of  Eribert. ;  and  at.  the  hour 
Devoted  to  the  sword's  tremendous  task, 
I  follow  with  the  rest.— The  Vesper-bell ! 
That  sound  shall  wake  th'  avenger ;  for  'tis 

come, 

The  time  when  power  is  in  a  voice,  a  breath, 
To  burst  the  spell  which  bound  us.— But 

the  night 

Is  waning,  with  her  stars,  which,  one  by  one. 
Warn  us  to  part.  Friends,  to  your  homes ! — 

your  homes  ? 

That  name  is  yet  to  win.— Away,  prepare 
For  our  next  meeting  in  Palermo's  walls. 
The  Vesper-bell !   Remember  1 

Sic.  Fear  us  not. 
The  Vesper-bell  I  \Exeunt  omnu. 


ACT  THE  THIRD. 

SCENE  I. — Apartment  in  a  Palaft. 
ERIBERT.    VITTORIA. 

Vit.  Speak  not  of  love — it  is  a  word  with 

deep, 

Strange  magic  in  its  melancholy  sound, 
To  summon  up  the  dead  ;  and  they  should 

rest, 
At  such  an  faour  forgotten.    Tberf  ar« 

things 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 


255 


We  must  throw  from  us,,  when  the  heart 

would  gather 

Strength  to  fulfil  its  settled  purposes  : 
Therefore,  no  more-of  love ! — But,  if  to  robe 
This  form  in  bridal  ornaments,  to  smile 
(I  can  smile  yet)  at  thy  gay  feast,  and  stand 
At  th'  altar  by  thy  side  ;  if  this  be  deemed 
Enough,  it  shall  be  done. 
Eri.  My  fortune's  star 
Doth  rule  th'  ascendant  still  I  (apart.) — If 

not  of  love, 

Then  pardon,  lady,  that  1  speak  tf.joy, 
And  with  exulting  heart — 
Vit.  There  is  no  joy  ! — 
Who  shall  look  through  the  far  futurity, 
And,  as  the  shadowy  visions  of  events 
Develope  on  his  gaze,  'midst  their  dim 

throng, 

Dare,  with  oracular  mien  to  point,  and  say, 
"This  will  bring  happiness  ?"— Who  shall 

do  this  ? 
Why,  thou,  and  I,  and  all !— There's  One, 

who  sits 

In  his  own  bright  tranquillity  enthroned 
High  o'er  all  storms,  and  looking  far  beyond 
Their  thickest  clouds ;  but  we,  from  whose 

dull  eyes 

A  grain  of  dust  hides  the  great  sun,  e'en  we 
Usurp  his  attributes,  and  talk,  as  seers, 
Of  future  joy  and  grief  I 

Eri.  Thy  words  are  strange. 
Yet  will  I  hope  that  peace  at  length  shall 

settle 
Upon  thy  troubled  heart,  and  add  soft 

grace 

To  thy  majestic  beauty.— Fair  Vittoria  ! 
Oh  !  if  my  cares — 

Vit.  I  know  a  day  shall  come 
Of  peace  to  all.    Even  from  my  darkened 

spirit 

Soon  shall  each  restless  wish  be  exorcised, 
Which  haunts  it  now,  and  I  shall  then  lie 

down 

Serenely  to  repose.    Of  this  no  more— 
I  have  a  boon  to  ask. 

Eri.  Command  my  power, 
And  deem  it  thus  most  honoured. 

Vit.  Have  I  then 

Soared  such  an  eagle-pitch,  as  to  command 
The  mighty  Eribert  ? — And  yet  'tis  meet  ; 
For  I  bethink  me  now,  I  should  have  worn 
A  crown  upon  this  forehead. — Generous 

lord! 
Since  thus  you  give  me  freedom,  know, 

there  is 
An  hour  I  have  loved  from  childhood,  and 

a  sound,  [bearing 

SVb.cs*  tones,  o'er  earth  and  ocean  sweetly 


A  sense  of  deep  repose,  have  lulled  me  oft 
To  peace — which  is  forgetfulness  :  I  mean 
The  Vesper-bell.     I  pray  you,  let  it  be 
The  summons  toourbridal — Hear  you  not? 
To  our  fair  bridal  ? 

Eri.  Lady,  let  your  will 
Appoint  each  circumstance.    I  am  but  too 

blessed, 
Proving  my  homage  thus. 

Vit.  Why,  then,  'tis  mine 
To  rule  the  glorious  fortunes  of  the  day, 
And  I  may  be  content.     Yet  much  remains 
For  thought  to  brood  on,  and  I  would  be 

left 

Alone  with  my  resolves.  Kind  Eribert  I 
(Whom  1  command  so  absolutely),  now 
Part  we  a  few  brief  hours  ;  and  doubt  not, 

when 
I  am  at   thy  side  once  more,  but  I  shall 

stand 
There— to  the  last. 

Eri.  Your  smiles  are  troubled,  lady ; 
May  they  ere  long  be  brighter. — Time  will 

seem 

Slow  till  the  Vesper-bell. 
Vit.  'Tis  lovers'  phrase 
To  say— time  lags  ;  and  therefore  meet  for 

you : 

But  with  ap  equal  pace  the  hours  move  on, 
Whether  they  bear,  on  their  swift  silent 

wing, 
Pleasure  or — fate. 

Eri.  Be  not  so  full  of  thought 
On  such  a  day. — Behold,  the  skies  them- 
selves 

Look  on  my  joy  with  a  triumphant  smile, 
Unshadowed  by  a  cloud. 

Vit.  'Tis  very  meet 
That  Heaven  (which  loves  the  just)  should 

wear  a  smile 

In  honour  of  his  fortunes. — Now,  my  lord, 
Forgive  me  if  I  say,  farewell,  until 
Th'  appointed  hour. 
Eri.  Lady,  a  brief  farewell. 

[Exeunt  separately. 

SCENE  II.— The  Sea-shore. 
PROCIDA.    RAIMOND. 

Pro.  And  dost  thou  still  refuse  to  share 

the  glory 
Of  this  our  daring  enterprise  ? 

Hat.  Oh,  father ! 

I  too  have  dreamt  of  glory,  and  the  word 
Hath  to  my  soul  been  as  a  trumpet's  voioe, 
Making  my  nature  sleepless. — But  the  deed! 
Whereby  'twas  won,   the  high,    exploits* 
whose  tale 


256 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 


Bids  the  heart  burn,  were  of  another  cosl 
Than  such  as  them  requirest. 

Pro.  Every  deed 

Hath  sanctity,  if  bearing  for  its  aim 
The  freedom  of  our  country ;  and  the  sword 
Alike  is  honoured  in  the  patriot's  hand, 
Searching,  'midst  warrior-hosts,  the  heart 

which  gave 
Oppression  birth  ;  or  flashing  through  the 

gioom 

Of  the  still  chamber,  o'er  its  troubled  couch, 
At  dead  of  night. 

Kai,  (turning  away).  There  is  no  path 

but  one 
For  noble  natures.  l 

Pro.  Wouldst  thou  ash  the  man 
Who  to  the  earth  hath  dashed  a  nation's 

chains, 
Rent  as  with  Heaven's  own  lightning,  by 

what  means 
The  glorious  end  was  won  ? — Go,  swell  th' 

acclaim  1 

Bid  the  deliverer  hail !  and  if  his  path 
To  that  most  bright  and  sovereign  destiny 
Hath  led  o'er  trampled  thousands,  be  it  called 
A  stern  necessity,  and  not  a  crime  ! 
Kai.  Father  1  my  soul  yet  kindles  at  the 

thought 

Of  nobler  lessons  in  my  boyhood  learned 
Even  from  thy  voice. — The  high  remem- 
brances 

Of  other  days  are  stirring  in  the  hc^rt 
Where  thou  didst  plant  them  ;  and  they 

speak  of  men 

Who  needed  no  vain  sophistry  to  gild 
Acts  that  would  bear  Heaven's  light. — And 

such  be  mine  1 

Oh,  father  1  is  it  yet  too  late  to  draw 
The  praise  and  blessing  of  all  valiant  hearts 
On  our  most  righteous  cause? 
Pro.  What  wouidst  thou  do  ? 
Kai.  I  would  go  forth,  and  rouse    th' 

indignant  land  t 

To  generous  combat.    Why  should  freedom 

strike  [strength 

Mantled  with  darkness? — Is  there  not  more 
E'en  in  the  waving  of  her  single  arm 
Than  hosts  can  wield  against  her?— I  would 

rouse 

That  spirit,  whosefire  doth  press  resistless  on 
To  its  proud  sphere,  the  stormy  field  of 

fight! 
Pro".  Ay  1  and  give  time  and  warning  to 

the  foe 

To  gather  all  his  might  1 — It  is  too  late. 
There  is  a  work  to  be  this  eve  begun, 
When  rings  the  Vesper-bell  1    and,  loty* 

before 


To-morrow's  sun  hath  reach'd  i1  th'  noon- 
day heaven 

His  throne  of  burning  glory,  every  sound 
Of  the  Provencal  tongue  within  our  walls, 
As  by  one  thunderstroke — (you  are  pale, 

my  son) — 
Shall  be  for  ever  silenced. 

Kai.  What  !  such  sounds 
As  falter  on  the  lip  of  infancy 
In  its  imperfect  utterance?  or  are  breathed 
By  the  fond  mother,  as  she  lulls  her  babe? 
Or  in  sweet  hymns,  upon  the  twilight  air 
Poured  by  the  timid  maid  ? — Must  all  alike 
Be  stilled  in  death  ;  and  wouldst  thou  tell 

my  heart 

There  is  no  crime  in  this  ? 
Pro.  Since  thou  dost  feel 
Such  horror  of  our  purpose,  in  thy  power 
Are  means  that  might  avert  it. 
Kai.  Speak  !    Oh,  speak  I 
Pro.    How  would  those  rescued  thou- 
sands bless  thy  name 
Shouldst  thou  betray  us  I 

Rat.  Father  I  I  can  bear — 
Ay,  proudly  woo — the  keenest  questioning 
Of  thy  soul-gifted'eye  ;  which  almost  seema 
To  clairrj  a  part  of  Heaven's  dread  royalty — 
The  power  that  searches  thought  1 

Pro.  (after  a  pause).  Thou  hast  a  brow 
Clear  as  the  day — and  yet  I  doubt  thee; 

Raimond  1 

Whether  it  be  that  I  have  learned  distrust 
From  a  long  look  through  man's  deep- 
folded  heart ;  [crossed 
Whether  my  paths  have  been  so  seldom 
By  honour  and  fair  mercy,  that  they  seem 
But  beautiful  deceptions,  meeting  thus 
My  unaccustomed  gaze  ; — howe'er  it  be — 
I  doubt  fhee  I — See  thou  waver  not — t;ike 

heed  I 
Time  lifts  the  veil  from  all  things  I 

[Exit  PROCrDA. 

Kai.  And  'tis  thus  [robes 

Youth  fades  from  off  our  spirit ;  and  the 
Of  beauty  and  of  majesty,  wherewith 
We  clothed  our  idols,  drop  1    Oh  I  bitter 

day, 

When,  at  the  crushing  of  our  glorious  world, 
We  start,  and  find  men  thus  I — Yet  be  it  so  1 
Is  not  my  soul  still  powerful,  in  itself 
To  realize  its  dreams? — Ay,  shrinking  not 
From  the  pure  eye  of  Heaven,  my  brow  may 

well 

Undaunted  meet  my  father's. — But,  away  1 
Thou  shall  be  saved,  sweet  Constance  I— 

Love  is  yet 
Mightier  than  vengeance. 

[Exit  RAIMOND, 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 


257 


SCENE  III.— Gardens  of  a  Palace. 

CONSTANCE  alone. 
Con.  There  was  a  time  when  my  thoughts 

wandered  not 
Beyond  these  fairy  scenes ;  when,  but  to 

catch 
The  languid  fragrance  of   the   southern 

breeze 

From  the  rich-flowering  citrons,  or  to  rest, 
Dreaming  of  some  wild  legend,  in  the  shade 
Of  the  dark  laurel-foliage,  was  enough 
Of  happiness. — How  have  these  calm  de- 
lights 

Fled  from  before  one  passion,  as  the  dews, 
The  delicate  gems  of  morning,  are  exhaled 
By  the  great  sun ! 

(RAIMOND  enters.) 
Rai^ond  1  oh  !  now  thou'rt  come, 
I  read  it  in  thy  look,  to  say  farewell 
For  the  last  time — the  last  1 
Rai.  No,  best  beloved  I 
I  come  to  tell  thee  there  is  now  no  power 
To  part  us— but  in  death. 

Con.  I  have  dreamt  of  joy, 
But  never   aught   like  this.— Speak   yet 

again  1 
Say,  we  shall  part  no  more  I 

Rai.  No  more,  if  love 
Can  strive  with  darker  spirits,  and  he  is 

strong 

In  his  immortal  nature  1  all  is  changed 
Since  last  we  met.    My  father — keep  the 

tale 

Secret  from  all,  and  most  of  all,  my  Con- 
stance, 

From  Eribert— my  father  is  returned  : 
I  leave  thee  not. 

Con.  Thy  father  I  blessed  sound ! 
Good  angels  be  his  guard  I — Oh  !   if  he 

knew 
How  my  soul  clings  to  thine,  he  could  not 

hate  [now 

Even  a  Provencal  maid  I — Thy  father  ! — 
Thy  soul  will  be  at  peace,  and  I  shall  see 
The  sunny  happiness  of  earlier  days 
Look  from  thy  brow  once  more  t — But  how 

is  this? 

Thine  eye  reflects  not  the  glad  soul  of  mine ; 
And  in  thy  look  is  that  which  ill  befits 
A  tale  of  joy. 

Rai.  A  dream  is  on  my  soul. 
I  see  a  slumberer,  crowned  with  flowers, 

and  smiling 

As  in  delighted  visions,  on  the  brink 
Of  a  dread  chasm  ;  and  this  strange  phan» 

tasv 


Hath  cast  so   deep   a   shadow  o'er  my 

thoughts, 
I  cannot  but  be  sad. 

Con.  Why,  let  me  sing 
One  of  the  sweet  wild  strains  you  love  so 

well, 

And  this  will  banish  it. 
Rai.  It  may  not  be. 

Oh  !  gentle  Constance,  go  not  forth  to-day : 
Such  dreams  are  ominous. 

Con.  Have  you  then  forgot     < 
My  brother's  nuptial  feast  ? — I  must  be  one 
Df  the  gay  train  attending  to  the  shrine 
His  stately  bride.     In  sooth,  my  step  of  joy 
Will  print  earth  lightly  now. — What  fear'st 

thou,  love  ? 
Look  all  around  1  these  blue  transparent 

skies, 

And  sunbeams  pouring  a  more  buoyant  life 
Through    each    glad  thrilling  vein,   will 

brightly  chase 

All  thought  of  evil.— Why,  the  very  air 
Breathes  of  delight  1— Through  all  its  glow- 
ing realms 
Doth  music  blend  with  fragrance,  and  e'en 

here 

The  city's  voice  of  jubilee  is  heard 
Till  each  light  leaf  seems  trembling  unto 

sounds 
Of  human  joy  I 

Rai.  There  lie  far  deeper  things, — 
Things,  that  may  darken  thought  for  life, 

beneath 
That   city's   festive    semblance. — I    have 

passed  [marked 

Through  the  glad  multitudes,  and  I  have 
A  stern  intelligence  in  meeting  eyes, 
Which  deemed  their  flash  unnoticed,  and 

a  quick, 

Suspicious  vigilance,  too.intent  to  clothe 
Its  mien  with  carelessness ;  and,  now  and 

then, 

A  hurrying  start,  a  whisper,  or  a  hand 
Pointing  by  stealth  to  some  one,  singled  out 
Amidst  the  reckless  throng.     O'er  all  is 

spread 

A  mantling  flush  of  revelry,  which  may  hide 
Much  from  unpractised  eyes ;  but  lighter 

signs 
Have  been  prophetic  oft. 

Con.  I  tremble  ! — Raimond ! 
What  may  these  things  portend  ? 

Rai.  It  was  a  day 
Of  festival,  like  this  ;  the  city  sent 
Up  through  her  sunny  firmament  a  voice 
joyous  as  now ;  when,  scarcely  heralded 
By  one  deep  moan,  forth  from  his  cavern- 
ous depths 


258 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 


The   earthquake    burst ;    and    the   wide 

splendid  scene 

Became  one  chaos  of  all  fearful  things, 
Till  the  brain  whirled,  partaking  the  sick 

motion 
Of  rocking  palaces. 

Con.  And  then  didst  thou, 
My  noble  Raimond !  through  the  dreadful 

paths 

Laid  open  by  detraction,  past  the  chasms, 
Whose  fathomless  clefts,  a  moment's  work, 

had  given 

One  burial  unto  thousands,  rush  to  save 
Thy  trembling  Constance!  she  who  lives 

to  bless 
Thy  generous  love,  that  still  the  breath  of 

heaven 
Wafts  gladness  to  her  soul  I 

Rai.  Heaven  ! — Heaven  is  just  I. 
And  being  so,  must  guard  thee,  sweet  one, 

still. 
Trust  none  beside. — Oh  I  the  omnipotent 

skies 
Make  their  wrath  manifest,  but  insidious 

man 
Doth  compass  those  he  hates  with  secret 

snares. 
Wherein  lies  fate.     Know,  danger  walks 

abroad,  [all 

Masked  as  a  reveller.  Constance  !  oh  !  by 
Our  tried  affection,  all  the  vows  which  bind 
Our  hearts  together,  meet  me  in  these 

bowers ; 

Here,  1  adjure  thee,  meet  me,  when  the  bell 
Doth  sound  for  vesper-prayer  ! 
Con.  And  know'st  thou  not 
Twill  be  the  bridal  hour? 
Rai.  It  will  not,  love  I 
That  hour  will  bring  no  bridal ! — Nought 

.   of  this 

To  human  ear :  but  speed  thou  hither,  fly, 
When  evening  brings  that  signal. — Dost 

thou  heed  ? 

This  is  no  meeting  by  a  lover  sought 
To  breathe  fond  tales,  and  make  the  twilight 

groves 

And  stars  attest  his  vows ;  deem  thou  not  so, 
Therefore  denying  it  1 — I  tell  thee,  Con- 
stance I 
If  thou  wouldst  save  me  from  such  fierce 

despair 

As  falls  on  man,  beholding  all  he  loves 
Perish  before  him,  while  his  strength  can 

but 
Strive  with   his  agony — thou'lt   meet   me 

then  ?  [moved — 

Look  on  me,  love  1 — I  am  not  oft  so 
Tbou'lt  meet  me  ? 


Con.  Oh  I  what  mean  thy  words?— If 

then 
My  steps  are  free, — I  will.    Be  thou  but 

calnr  « 

Rai,  Be  calm ! — there  is  a  cold  and  sullen 

caitti, 

And,  were  my  wild  fears  made  realities, 
It  might   be   mine ;   but,    in   this   dreao. 

suspense, 

This  conflict  of  all  terrible  phantasies, 
There  is  no  calm. — Yet  fear  thou  not.  dear 

love  I 
I  will  watch  o'er  thee  still.    Ard  now, 

farewell 

Until  that  hour ! 
COM.  My  Raimond.  fare  tuee  well. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— Room  in  the  Citadel  of 
Palermo. 

ALBERTI.    DE  Couci. 

De  Con.  Said'st  thou  this  night? 

Alb.  This  very  night — and  lo  1 
E'en  now  the  sun  declines. 

De  Cou.  What  I  are  they  armed  ? 

Alb.  All  armed,  and  strong  in  vengeance 
and  despair. 

De  Cou.  Doubtful  and  strange  the  tale  I 

Why  was  not  this 
Revealed  before  ? 

Alb.  Mistrust  me  not,  my  lord  ! 
That  stern  and  jealous  Procida  hath  kept 
O'er  all  my  steps  (as  though  he  did  suspect 
The  purposes,  which  oft  his  eye  hath  sought 
To  read  in  mine)  &  watch  so  vigilant, 
I  knew  not  howto  warn  thee,  though  for  this- 
Alone  I  mingled  with  his  bands,  to  learn 
Their  projects  and  their  strength.    Thou 

know'st  my  faith 
To  Anjou's  house  full  well. 

De  Coti.  How  may  we  now 
Avert  the  gathering  storm? — The  viceroy 

holds 

His  bridal  feast,  and  all  is  revelry. — 
'Twas  a  true-boding  heaviness  of  heart, 
Which  kept  me  from  these  nuptials. 

Alb.  Thou  thyself 

Mayst  yet  escape,  and,  haply  of  thy  bands 
Rescue  a  part,  ere  long  to  wreak  full  ven- 
geance 

Upon  these  rebels.     'Tis  too  late  to  dream 
Of  saving  Eribert.    E'en  shouldst  thou  rush 
Before  him  with  the  tidings,  in  his  pride 
And  confidence  of  soul,  he  would  but  laugh 
Thy  tale  to  scorn. 

De  Cou.  He  must  not  die  unwarned, 
Though  it  be  ail  in  vain.   But  thou,  Albert!, 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 


259 


'Rejoin  thycomrades,  lest  thineabsence  wake 
Suspicion  in  their  hearts.    Thou  hast  done 

well, 
And  shall  not  pass  unguerdoned,  should  I 

live  [night. 

Through  thedeep  horrors  of  th'approaching 

Aid.   Noble  De  Couci,  trust  me  still. 

Anjou 
Commands  no  heart  more  faithful  than 

Alberti's.  [Exit  ALBERTI. 

De  Cou.  The  grovelling  slave  ! — And  yet 

he  spoke  too  true  ! 
For  Eribert,  in  blind  elated  joy, 
Will  scorn  the  warning  voice. — The  day 

wanes  fast, 

And  through  the  city,  recklessly  dispersed, 
Unarmed  and  unprepared,  my  soldiers  revel, 
E'en  on  the  brink  of  fate. — I  must  away. 
[Exit  DE  Couci. 

SCENE   V.  —  A  Banqueting  Hall. 
PROVENCAL  NOBLES  assembled. 

First  Noble.  Joy  be  to  this  fair  meeting  I  — 

Who  hath  seen 
The  viceroy's  bride  ? 

Second  Noble.  I  saw  her,  as  she  passed 
The  gazing  throngs  assembled  in  the  city. 
'Tis  said  she  hath  not  left  for  years,  till  now, 
Her  castle's  wood-girt  solitude.  Twill  gall 
These  proud  Sicilians,  that  her  wide  domains 
Should  be  the  conqueror's  guerdon. 

Third  Noble.  Twas  their  boast 
With  what  fond  faith  she  worshipped  still 

the  name 

Of  the  boy,  Conradin.     How  will  the  slaves 
Brook  this  new  triumph  of  their  lords  ? 

Second  Noble.  In  sooth 
It  stings  them  to  the  quick.  In  the  full  streets 
They  mix  with  Our  Provencals,  and  assume 
A  guise  of  mirth,  but  it  sits  hardly  on  them. 
'Twere  worth  a  thousand  festivals,  to  see 
With  what  a  bitter  and  unnatural  effort 
They  strive  to  smile  I 

First  Noble.  Is  this  Vittoria  fair? 

Second  Noble.  Of  a  most  noble  mien ;  but 

yet  her  beauty 

Is  wild  and  awful,  and  her  large  dark  eye, 
In  its  unsettled  glances,  hath  strange  power, 
From  which  thou'lt  shrink,  as  I  did. 

First  Noble.  Hush  1  they  come. 

Enter  ERIBERT,  VITTORIA,  CONSTANCE, 
and  others. 

Eri.  Welcome,  my  noble  friends  I— there 

must  not  lower 

One  clouded  brow  to-day  in  Sicily  I 
BehoU  my  bride  1 


Nobles.  Receive  our  homage,  lady  ! 
Vit.  I  bid  all  welcome.     May  the  fens) 

we  offer 

Prove  worthy  of  such  guests  1 
Eri.  Look  on  her,  friends  1 
And  say  if  that  majestic  brow  is  not 
Meet  for  a  diadem  ? 

Vit.  'Tis  well,  my  lord  ! 
When  memory's  pictures  fade,  'tis  kindty 

done 

To  brighten  their  dimmec!  hues  I 
First  Noble  (apart).    Marked  you   her 

glance  ? 
Second  Noble   (apart).    What   eloquent 

scorn  was  there  !    yet  he,  th'  elate 
Of  heart,  perceives  it  not, 
Eri.  Now  to  the  feast  ! 
Constance,  you  look  not  joyous.     I  have 

said 

That  all  should  smile  to-day. 
Con.  Forgive  me,  brother  ! 
The  heart  is  wayward,  and  its  garb  of  pomp 
At  times  oppresses  it. 
Eri.  Why  how  is  this  ? 
Con.  Voices  of  woe,  and  prayers  of  agony 
Unto  my  soul  have  risen,  and  left  sad  sounds 
There  echoing  still.     Yet  would  I  fain  be 

gay, 
Sin  e  'tis  your  wish. — In  truth,  I  should 

have  been 
A  village-maid  I 

Eri.  But,  being  as  you  are, 
Not  thus  igno,bly  free,  command  your  looks 
(They  may  be  taught  obedience)  to  reflect 
The  aspect  of  the  time. 

Vit.  And  know,  fair  maid  I 
That  if  in  this  unskilled,  you  stand  alone 
Amidst  our  court  of  pleasure. 

Eri.  To  the  feast  I 
Now  let  the  red  wine  foam  I — There  should 

be  mirth 
When  conquerors   revel ! — Lords  of  this 

fair  isle  1 
Your  good  swords'  heritage,  crown  each 

bowl,  and  pledge 
The  present  and  the  future  !   for  they  both 
1  -ook  brightly  on  us.     Dost  thou  smile,  my 

bride  ? 

Vit.  Yes,  Eribert ! — thy  prophecies  of  joy 
Eiave  taught  e'en  me  to  smile. 

Eri.  'Tis  well.    To-day 
'.  have  won1  a  fair  and  almost  royal  bride ; 
To-morrow — let  the  bright  sun  speed  his 

course, 

To  waft  me  happiness  ! — my  proudest  foes 
Must  die — and  then  my  slumber  shall  be 

laid 
On  rose-leaves,  with  no  envious  fold,  to  mat 


260 


TEE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 


The  luxury  of  Its  visions  I— Fair  Vittoria, 
Your  looks  are  troubled ! 

Vit.  It  is  strange,  but  oft, 
'Midst  festal  songs  and  garlands,  o'er  my 

soul 
Deatli  comes,  with  some  dull  image  1  as 

you  spoke 
Of  those  whose  blood  is  claimed,  I  thought 

for  them 

Who,  in  a  darkness  thicker  than  the  night 
E'er  wove  with  all  her  clouds,  have  pined 

so  long : 
How  blessed  were  the  stroke  which  makes 

them  things 

Of  that  invisible  world,  wherein,  we  trust, 
There   is,   at    least,    no    bondage  I — But 

should  we 
From  such  a  scene  as  this,  where  all  earth's 

joys 

Contend  for  mastery,  and  the  very  sense 
Of  life  is  rapture  ;  should  we  pass,  I  say, 
At  once  from  such  excitements  to  the  void 
And  silent  gloom  of  that  which  doth  await 

us — 
Were  it  not  dreadful  ? 

Eri.  Banish  such  dark  thoughts  I 
They  ill  beseem  the  hour. 
Vit.  There  is  no  hour 
Of  this  mysterious  world,  in  joy  or  woe, 
But  they  beseem  it  well  1 — Why,  what  a 

slight, 
Impalpable    bound    is  that,   th'  unseen, 

which  severs  [near 

Being  from  death  ! — And  who  can  tell  how 
Its  misty  brink  he  stands  ? 
First  Noble    (aside).    What  mean  her 

words  ? 

Second  Noble.  There's  some  dark  mys- 
tery here. 

Eri.  No  more  of  this  I 
Pour  the  bright  juice  which  Etna's  glowing 

vines  [voice 

Yield  to  the  conquerors  1    And  let  music's 
Dispel    these    ominous    dreams  I — Wake, 

harp,  and  song  I 
Swell  out  your  triumph  I 

(A  MESSENGER  enters,  bearing  a  letter.) 

Mis.  Pardon,  my  good  Lord  I 
But  this  demands 

Eri.  What  means  thy  breathless  haste  ? 
And  that  ill-boding  mien  ? — Away  I   such 

looks 
Befit  not  hours  like  these. 

Mes.  The  Lord  De  Couci 
Bade  me  bear  this,  and  say,   'tis  fraught 
with  tidings  , 

Of  life  and  death. 


Vit.  (hurriedly).  Is  this  a  time  ror  aught 
But  revelry? — My  lord,  these  du'U  intrusions 
Mar  the  bright  spirit  of  the  festal  scene  1 
Eri.  (to  the  Mes.)  Hence  1  tell  the  Lord 

De  Couci  we  will  talk 
Of  life  and  death  to-morrow. 

{Exit  MESSENGER. 
Let  there  be 

Around  me  none  but  joyous  looks  to-day, 
And    strains  whose  very  echoes  wake  to 
mirth  ! 

[A  band  of  the  Conspirators  enter,  to  the 
sound  of  music,  disguised  as  shepherds, 
bacchanals,  &c. 

Eri.    What    forms    are    these? — what 

means  this  antic  triumph  ? 
Vit.  'Tis  but  a  rustic  pageant,  by  my 

vassals 

Prepared  to  grace  our  bridal.  Will  you  not 
Hear  their  wild  music  ?    Our  Sicilian  vales 
Have  many  a  sweet  and  mirthful  melody, 
To  which  the  glad  heart  bounds. — Breathe 

ye  some  strain 
Meet  for  the  time,  ye  sons  of  Sicily  I 

(One  of  the  Masquers  sings.) 

The  festal  eve,  o'er  earth  and  sky, 

In  her  sunset  robe,  looks  bright ; 
And  the  purple  hills  of  Sicily, 

With  their  vineyards,  laugh  in  light ; 
From  the  marble  cities  of  her  plains 

Glad  voices  mingling  swell ; — 
But  with  yet  more  loud  and  lofty  strains, 

They  shall  hail  the  Vesper-bell  I 

Oh !  sweet  its  tones,  when  thesummer  breeze 

Their  cadence  wafts  afar, 
To  float  o'er  the  blue  Sicilian  seas, 

As  they  gleam  to  the  first  pale  star ! 
The  shepherd  greets  them  on  his  height, 

The  hermit  in  his  cell ; — 
But  a  deeper  power  shall  breathe  to-night, 

In  the  sound  of  the  Vesper-bell  I 

[The  bell  rings. 

Eri.— It  is  the  hour  !— Hark,  hark  I— 

my  bride,  our  summons  I 
The  altar  is  prepared  and  crowned  with 
flowers 

That  wait 

Vit.  The  victim! 

[A  tumult  heard  without, 

PROCIDA  and  MONTALBA  enter  with 
others,  armed. 

Pro.  Strike-!  the  hour  is  come  ! 
Vit.  Welcome,      avengers,     welcome  I 
Now,  be  strong  I 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO 


261 


[The  Conspirators  throw  o/  their  dis- 
guise,   and  rush    -with    tfieir  swords 
,      drawn,  upon  the  Provencals.  ERIBERT 
is  wounded  and  falls. 

Pro.  Now  hath  fate  reached  thee  in  thy 

mid  career, 
Thou  reveller  in  a  nation's  agonies  1 

{The    Provencals   are    driven,  off,   and 
pursued  by  the  Sicilians. 

Con.  (supporting   ERIBERT).     My  bro- 
ther !  oh  !  my  brother  ! 
••Eri.  Have  I  stood 
A  leader  in  the  battle-fields  of  kings, 
To  perish  thus  at  last?  —  Ay,   by  these 

pangs, 
And  this  strange  chill,  that  heavily  doth 

creep, 
Like  a  slow  poison,  through  my  curdling 

veins, 
This  should  be— death  I— In  sooth  a  dull 

exchange 

For  the  gay  bridal  feast  1 
Voices  (without).  Remember  Cbnradin  1 

— spare  none,  spare  none  ! 
Vit.  (throwing  off  her  bridal  wreath  and 

ornaments).     This  is  proud  freedom  I 

Now  my  soul  may  cast, 
In  generous  scorn,  her  mantle  of  dissembling 
To  earth  for  ever  ! — And  it  is  such  joy, 
As  if  a  captive,  from  his  dull,  cold  cell, 
Might  soar  at  once  on  chartered  wing  to 

range 

The  realms  of  starred  infinity  ! — Away  1 
Vain  mockery  of  a  bridal  wreath  1  The  hour 
For  which  stem  patience  ne'er  kept  watch 

in  vain 

Is  come  ;  and  I  may  give  my  bursting  heart 
*ull  and  indignant  scope. — Now,  Eribert  1 
Believe  in  retribution  1  What,  proud  man  I 
Prince,  ruler,  conqueror  !  didst  thou  deem 

Heaven  slept  ? 

"  Or  that  the  unseen,  immortal  ministers, 
Ranging  the  world,  to  note  e'en  purposed 

crime 

In  burning  characters,  had  laid  aside 
Their  everlasting  attributes  for  thee  f  — 
Oh  1  blind  security  t — He,  in  whose  dread 

hand 
The  lightnings  vibrate,  holds  them  back 

until 
The  trampler  of  this  goodly  earth  bath 

reached 
His  pyramid-height  of  power  ;  that  so  his 

fall 

May,  with  more  fearful  oracles,  make  pale 
Man's  crowned  oppressors  I 


Con.  Oh  !  reproach  him  not ! 
His  soul  is  trembling  on  the  dizzy  brink 
Of  that  dim  world  where  passion  may  not 

enter. 
Leave  him  in  peace  I 

Voices  (without).     Anjou,   Anjou  ! — De 

Couci  to  the  rescue  1 
Eri.  (half-raising  himself ).     My  brave 

Provenfals !  do  ye  combat  still  ? 
And  I,  your  chief,  am  here  1 — Now,  now 

I  feel 
That  death  indeed  is  bittei ! 

Vit.  Fare  thee  well  1 

Thine  eyes  so  oft,  with  their  insulting  smile, 
Have  looked  on  man's  last  pangs,  thou 

shouldst,  by  this, 
Be  perfect  how  to  die  I     [Exit  VITTORIA. 

RAIMOND  enters. 

Rai.  Away,  my  Constance ! 
Now  is  the  time  for  flight.  Our  slaughtering 

bands 

Are  scattered  far  and  wide.  A  little  while 
And  thou  shall  be  in  safety.  Know'st  thou 

not  [man, 

That  low  sweet  vale,  where  dwells  the  holy 
Anselmo  ?  He  whose  hermitage  is  reared 
'Mid  some  old  temple's  ruin? — Round  the 

spot 
His  name  hath  spread  so  pure  and  deep  a 

charm, 

•Tis  hallowed  as  a  sanctuary,  wherein 
Thou  shalt  securely  bide,  till  this  wild  storm 
Hath  spent  its  fury.     Haste  I 

Con.  I  will  not  fly  I 

While  in  his  heart  there  is  one  throb  of  life, 
One  spark  in  his  dim  eyes,  I  will  not  leave 
The  brother  of  my  youth  to  perish  thus. 
Without  one  kindly  bosom  to  sustain 
His  dying  head. 

Eri.  The  clouds  are  darkening  round. 
There  are  strange  voices  ringing  in  my  ear 
That  summon  me— to  what?.— But  I  have 

been 

Used  to  command  I— Away  I  I  will  not  die 

But  on  the  field—  [He  dies. 

Con.  (kneeling  by  him).  O  Heaven  !  be 

merciful, 
As  thou  art  just !— for  he  is  now  where 

nought 
But  mercy  can  avail  him ! — It  is  past  I 

GUIDO  enters,  with  his  sword  drawn. 
Gui.   (to  RAIMOND).   I've  sought  thee 

long — why  art  thou  lingering  here  ? 
Haste,    follow  me!— Suspicion  with    thy 

name 
Joins  that  word — Traitor/ 


262 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 


Rai.  Traitor  1— . — Guido  ? 
Gtti.  Yes! 

Hast  thou  not  heard  that,  with  his  men-at- 
arms, 

After  vain  conflict  with  a  people's  wrath, 
De  Couci  hath  escaped? — And  there  are 

those 
Who  murmur  that  from  thet  the  warning 

came 
Which  saved  him  from  our  vengeance.   But 

e'en  yet 

In  the  red  current  of  Provencal  blood 
That  doubt  may  be  effaced.    Draw  thy 

good  sword, 
And  follow  me ! 

Rai.  And  thou  couldst  daubt  me,  Guido  1 
'Tis  come  to  this ! — Away !  mistrust  me  still. 
I  will  not  stain  my  sword  with  deeds  like 

thine. 
Thou  know'st  me  not ! 

Gui.  Raimond  di  Procida ! 
I/  thou  art  he  whom  once  I  deemed  so 

noble — 
Call  me  thy  friend  no  more  1 

[Exit  GUIDO. 

Rai.  (after  a  pause) .  Rise,  dearest,  rise! 
Fhy  duty's  task  hath  nobly  been  fulfilled, 
E'en  in  the  face  of  death  ;  but  all  is  o'er, 
And  this  is  now  no  place  where  nature's 

tears 

In  quiet  sanctity  may  freely  flow. — 
Hark  !  the  wild  sounds  that  wait  on  fearful 

deeds 

Are  swelling  on  the  winds,  as  the  deep  roar 
Of  fast-advancing  billows  ;  and  for  thee 
I  shame  not  thus  to  tremble. — Speed,  oh, 

speed  I  [Exeunt. 


ACT  THE  FOURTH. 

SCENE  I. — A  Street  in  Palermo. 

PROCIDA  enters. 
Pro.  How  strange  and  deep  a  stillness 

loads  the  air, 
As  with  the  power  of  midnight ! — Ay,  where 

death 
Hath  passed,  there  should  be  silenc", — But 

this  hush 
Of  nature's  heart,  this  breathlessness  of  all 

things, 
Doth  press  on  thought  too  heavily,  and  the 

sky, 

With  its  dark  robe  of  purple  thunder-clouds 
Brooding  in  sullen  masses,  o'er  my  spirit, 
Weighs  like  an  omen  1 — Wherefore  should 

this  be? 
Is  not  our  task  achieved,  the  mi^utv  work 


Of  our  deliverance !— Yes  ;    I  should  be 

joyous : 

But  this  our  feeble  nature,  with  its  quick 
Instinctive  superstitions,  will  drag  down 
Th'  ascending  soul. — And  1  have  fearful 

bodings 
That     treachery    lurks     amongst     us. — 

Raimond  1  Raimond  I 
Oh  I  Guilt  ne'er  made  a  mien  like  his  its 

garb !    . 
It  cannot  be  ! 

MONTALBA,  GUIDO,  and  other 
Sicilians  enter. 

Pro.  Welcome  !  we  meet  in  joy ! 
Now  may  we  bear  ourselves  erect,  resuming 
The  kingly  port  of  freemen  I    Who  shall 

dare, 

After  this  proof  of  slavery's  dread  recoil, 
To  weave  us  chains  again  ? — Ye  have  done 

well. 
We  have   done  well.      There  needs  no 

choral  song, 

No  shouting  multitudes  to  blazon  forth 
Our  stern  exploits. — The  silence  of  our  foes 
Doth  vouch  enough,  and  they  are  laid  to 

rest 
Deep  as  the  sword  could  make  it.    Yet  our 

task 
Is  still  but  half  achieved,  since,  with  his 

bands, 

De  Couci  hath  escaped,  and,  doubtless,  leads 
Their  footsteps  to  Messina,  where  our  foes 
Will  gather  all  their  strength.  Determined 

hearts, 

And  deeds  to  startle  earth,  are  yet  required 
To  make  the  mighty  sacrifice  complete. — 
Where  is  thy  son  ? 

Pro.  I  know  not.    Once  last  night 
He  crossed  my  path,  and  with  one  stroke 

beat  down 

A  sword  just  raised  to  smite  me,  and  restored 
Myown,  which  in  that  deadly  strife  had  been 
Wrenched  from  my  grasp :  but  when  I 

would  have  pressed  him 
To  my  exulting  bosom,  he  drew  back, 
And  with  a  sad,  and  yet  a  scornful,  smile, 
Full  of  strange  meaning,  left  me.    Since 

that  hour 
I   have  not  seen  him.    Wherefore  didst 

thou  ask  ? 
Man.  It  matters  not.    We  have  deepei 

things  to  speak  of.-— 
Know'st  thou  that  we  have  traitors  in  om 

councils  ? 
Pro.  I  know  some  voice  in  secret  must 

have  warned 
De  Couci ;  or  bis  scattered  bands  had  ne'er 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 


263 


So  soon  been  marshalled,  and  in  close  array 
Led  hence  as  from  the  field.     Hast  thou 

heard  aught 
That  may  develope  this  ? 

Man.  The  guards  we  set 
To  watch  the  city-gates  have  seized,  this 

mom, 

One  whose  quick,  fearful  glance  and  hur- 
ried step 
Betrayed  his  guilty  purpose.     Mark  I    he 

bore 

(Amidst  the  tumult  deeming  that  his  flight 
Might  all  unnoticed  pass)  these  scrolls  to 

him, 

The  fugitive  Provencal.     Read  and  judge  I 
Pro.  Where  is  this  messenger? 
Man.  Where  should  he  be  ? — 
They  slew  him  in  their  wrath. 

Pro*  Unwisely  done  I 
Give  me  the  scrolls.  [He  reads. 

Now,  if  there  be  such  things 
As  may  to  death  add  sharpness,  yet  delay 
The  pang  which  gives  release  ;  if  there  be 

power 

In  execration,  to  call  down  the  fires 
Of  yon  avenging  heaven,  whose  rapid  shafts 
But  for  such  guilt  were  aimless  ;  be  they 

heaped 
Upon  the  traitor's  head  1 — Scorn  make  his 

name 
Her  mark  for  ever  1 

Man.  In  our  passionate  blindness, 
We  send  forth  curses  whose  deep  stings 

recoil 
Oft  on  ourselves. 

Pro.  Whate'er  fate  hath  of  ruin 
Fall  on  his  house  1— What  1  to  resign  again 
That  freedom  for  whose  sake  our  souls 

have  now 
Engrained  themselves  in  blood  I — Why,  who 

is  he 
That  hath  devised  this  treachery  ? — To  the 

scroll 

Why  fixed  he  not  his  name,  so  stamping  it 
With  an  immortal  infamy,  whose  brand 
Might  warn  men  from  him  ? — Who  should 

be  so  vile  ? 

Alberti  ? — In  his  eye  is  that  which  ever 
Shrinks  from  encountering  mine  1 — But  no  I 

his  race 

Is  of  our  noblest — oh  I  he  could  not  shame 
That  high  descent ! — Urbino  ? — Conti  ? — 

No! 
They  are  too  deeply  pledged. — There's  one 

name  more  1 — 

1  cannot  utter  it  I — Now  shall  I  read 
£ach  face  with  cold  suspicion,  which  doth 

blot 


I  From  man's  high  mien  its  native  royalty, 
'  And  seal  his  noble  forehead  with  the  impress 
Of  its  own  vile  imaginings  1 — Speak  your 

thoughts, 
Montalba  I  Guido  ! — Who  should  this  man 

be? 

Man.  Why    what     Sicilian    youth  un- 
sheathed, last  night, 
His  sword  to  aid  our  foes,  and  turned  its 

edge 
Against  his  country's  chiefs  ? — He  that  did 

this, 

May  well  be  deemed  for  guiltier  treason  ripe. 
Pro.  And  who  is  he  ? 
Mon.  Nay,  ask  thy  son. 
Pro.  My  son  1 
What  should  he  know  of  such  a  recreant 

heart  ? 
Speak,  Guido  !  thou'rt  his  friend  1 

Gui.  I  would  not  wear 
The  brand  of  such  a  name  I 

Pro.  How  1  what  means  this  ? 
A  flash  of  light  breaks  in  upon  my  soul  ! 
Is  it  to  blast  me  ? — Yet  the  fearful  doubt 
Hath  crept  in  darkness  through  my  thoughts 

before, 
And  been  flung  from  them. — Silence  I— • 

Speak  not  yet ! 

I  would  be  cairn,  and  meet  the  thunder- 
burst 
With  a  strong  heart.  [A  pause. 

Now,  what  have  I  to  hear  ? 
Your  tidings  ? 

Gui.  Briefly,  'twas  your  son  did  thus ; 
He  hath  disgraced  your  name. 

Pro.  My  son  did  thus  ! — 
Are  thy  words  oracles,  that  I  should  search 
Their  hidden  meaning  out  ? —  What  did 

my  son  ? 

I  have  forgot  the  tale. — Repeat  it,  quick ! 
Gui.  Twill  burst  upon  thee  all  too  soon. 

While  we 

Were  busy  at  the  dark  and  solemn  rites 
Of  retribution  ;  while  we  bathed  the  earth 
In  red  libations,  which  will  consecrate 
The  soil  they  mingled  with  to  freedom's  step 
Through  the  long  march  of  ages ;  'twas  hit 

task 

To  shield  from  danger  a  Provencal  maid, 
Sister  of  him  whose  cold  oppression  stung 
Our  hearts  to  madness. 

Man.  What  1  should  she  be  spared 
To  keep  that  name  from    perishing   on 

earth? — 
*  crossed  them  in  then-  path,  and  raised  my 

sword 

To  smite  her  in  her  champion's  arms. — We 
fought— 


264 


THE  VESPER9  OF  PALERMO. 


The  boy  disarmed  me  1— And  I  live  to  tell 
My  shame,  and  wreak  my  vengeance  I 

Gui.  Who  but  he 

Could  warn  De  Couci,  or  devise  the  guilt 
These  scrolls  reveal  ? — Hath  not  the  traitor 

still 

Sought,   with  his  fair  and  specious  elo- 
quence, 
To  win  us  from  our  purpose  ? — All  things 

seem 
Leagued  to  unmask  him. 

Man.  Know  you  not  there  came, 
E'en  in  the  banquet's  hour,  from  this  De 

Couci, 

One,  bearing  unto  Eribert  the  tidings 
Of  all  our  purposed  deeds  I — And  have  we 

not 
Proof,  as  the  noonday  clear,  that  Raimond 

loves 
The  sister  of  that  tyrant  ? 

Pro.  There  was  one 
Who  mourned  for  being  childless  I — Let 

him  now 
Feast  o'er  his  children's  graves,  and  I  will 

join 

The  revelry  I. 

Man.  {apart).  You  shall  be  childless  too  1 
Pro.  Was't  you,   Montalba? — Now  re- 
joice, I  say. 

There  is  no  name  so  near  you  that  its  stains 
Should  call  the  fevered  and  indignant  blood 
To  your  dark  cheek  1 — But  I  will  dash  to 

earth 
The  weight  that  presses  on  my  heart,  and 

then 
Be  glad  as  thou  arj. 

Man.  What  means  this,  my  lord  ? 
Who  hath  seen  gladness  on  Montalba's 

mien? 
Pro.  Why,  should  not  all  be  glad  who 

have- no  sons 
To  tarnish  their  bright  name  ? 

Man.  I  am  not  used 
To  beat  with  mockery. 

Pro.  Friend  1    By  yon  high  heaven, 
I  mock  thee  not ! — 'tis  a  proud  fate,  to  live 
Alone  and  unallied. — Why,  what's  alone  ? 
A  word  whose  sense  is— free/ — Ay,  free 

from  all 

The  venomed  stings  implanted  in  the  heart 
By  those  it  loves. — Oh  I  I  could  laugh  to 

think 

O'  th'  joy  that  riots  in  baronial  halls, 
When  the  word  comes — "  A  son  is  born  r" 

— A  son  I — 
They  should  say  thus — "  He  thai  shall 

knit  your  brow 
To  furrows,  not  of  years ;  and  bid  your  eye 


Quail  its  proud  glance  ;  to  tell  the  earth  its 

shame, — 
Is  born,  and  so,  rejoice  1" — Then  might  we 

feast, 

And  know  the  cause  : — Were  it  not  excel- 
lent? 
Man.  This  is  all  idle.    There  are  deeds 

to  do ; 

Arouse  thee,  Procida  I 
Pro.  Why,  am  I  not 

Calm  as  immortal  justice  ? — She  can  strike, 
And  yet  be  passionless — and  thus  will  I. 
I  know  thy  meaning. — Deeds  to  do  1 — 'tis 

well. 
They  shall  be  done  ere  thought  on. — Go 

ye  forth ; 

There  is  a  youth  who  calls  himself  my  son, 
His  name  is — Raimond — in  his  eye  is  light 
That  shows  like  truth — but  be  not  ye  de- 
ceived ! 

Bear  him  in  chains  before  us.  We  will  sit 
To-day  in  judgment,  and  the  skies  shall  see 
The  strength  which  girds  our  nature.  Will 

not  this 

Be  glorious,  brave  Montalba  ? — Linger  not, 
Ye  tardy  messengers  1  for  there  are  things 
Which  ask  the  speed  of  storms. 

[Exeunt  GuiDO  and  others. 
Is  not  this  well  ? 
Man.  'Tis  noble.     Keep  thy  spirit  to 

this  proud  height,  [Aside. 

And  then — be  desolate  like  me  I — my  woes 
Will  at  the  thought  grow  light. 

Pro.  What  now  remains 
To  be  prepared  ? — There  should  be  solemn 

pomp 
To  grace  a  day  like  this. — Ay,  breaking 

hearts 

Require  a  drapery  to  conceal  their  throbs 
From  cold  inquiring  eyes  ;  and  it  must  be 
Ample  and  rich,  that  so  their  gaze  may  not 
Explore  what  lies  beneath. 

[Exit  PROCIDA. 
Man.  Now  this  is  well ! — 
I  hate  this  Procida  ;  for  he  hath  won 
In  all  our  councils  that  ascendancy 
And  mastery  o'er  bold  hearts,  which  should 

have  been 
Mine  by  a  thousand  claims. — Had  he  the 

strength 
Of  wrongs  like  mine? — No  1  for  that  name — 

his  country — 
He  strikes — my  vengeance  hath  a  deeper 

fount : 
But  there's  dark  jojHn  this  1— And  fate  hath 

barred 
My  soul  from  every  other. 

[Exit  MONTALBA. 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 


265 


SCENE  II. — A  Hermitage,  surrounded  by 
the  Ruins  of  an  ancient  Temple. 

CONSTANCE.    ANSELMO. 

Con.  Tis  strange  he  comes  not ! — Is  not 

this  the  still 
And  sultry  hour  of  noon? — He  should  have 

been 
Here  by  the  daybreak. — Was  there  not  a 

voice  ?— 

No  I  'tis  the  shrill  Cicada,  with  glad  life 
Peopling  these  marble  ruins,  as  it  sports 
Amidst  them,  in  the  sun. — Hark !  yet  again ! 
No !  no ! — Forgive  me,  father  I  that  I  bring 
Earth's  restless  griefs  and  passions  to  disturb 
The  stillness  of  thy  holy  solitude  ; 
My  heart  is  full  of  care. 

Am.  There  is  no  place 
So  hallowed  as  to  be  unvisited 
By  mortal  cares.  Nay,  whither  should  we  go, 
With  our  deep  griefs  and  passions,  but  to 

scenes 
Lonely  and  still ;  where  he  that  made  our 

hearts 
Will  speak  to  them  in  whispers  ?    I  have 

known 
Affliction  too,  my  daughter. 

Con.  Hark  !  his  step  I 
I  know  it  well— he  comes— my  Raimond, 

welcome  I 

(VICTORIA  enters,  CONSTANCE  shrinks 
back  on  perceiving  her.) 

O  Heaven  I  that  aspect  tells  a  fearful  tale. 
Vit.  (not  observing  her).  There  is  a  cloud 

of  horror  ou  my  soul ; 
And  on  thy  words,  Anselmo,  peace  doth 

wait, 

Even  as  an  echo,  following  the  sweet  close 
Of  some  divine  and  solemn  harmony : 
Therefore  I  sought  thee  now.    Oh  1  speak 

to  me 
Of  holy  things,  and  names,  in  whose  deep 

sound 

Is  power  to  bid  the  tempest  of  the  heart 
Sink,  like  a  storm  rebuked. 
Ans.  What  recent  grief 
Darkens  thy  spirit  thus  ? 
Vit.  I  said  not  grief. 
We  should  rejoice  to-day,  but  joy  is  not 
That  which  it  hath  been.    In  .the  flowers 

which  wreathe 

Its  mantling  cup  there  is  a  scent  unknown, 
Fraught  with  some  strange  delirium.     All 

things  now 
Have  changed  theii  nature ;  still,  I  say, 

rejoice ! 
There  is  a  cause,  Anselmo  I — We  are  free, 


Free  and  avenged  !— Yet  on  my  soul  there 

hangs 

A  darkness,  heavy  as  th'  oppressive  gloom 
Of  midnight  phantasies. — Ay,  for  this,  too, 
There  is  a  cause. 

Ans.  How  say'st  thou,  we  are  free? 
There  may  have  raged,  within  Palermo's 

walls, 

Some  brief  wild  tumult,  but  too  well  1  know 
They  call  the  stranger,  lord. 
Vit.  Who' calls  the  dead 
Conqueror  or  lord  ? — Hush  1  breathe  it  not 

aloud, 
The  wild  winds  must  not  hear  it ! — Yet, 

again, 
I  tell  thee,  we  are  free  ! 

Ans.  Thine  eye  hath  looked 
On  fearful  deeds,  for  still  their  shadows  hang 
O'er  its  dark  orb. — Speak  !  I  adjure  thee, 

say, 
How  hath  this  work  been  wrought  ? 

Vit.  Peace !  ask  me  not ! 
Why  shouldst  thou  hear  a  tale  to  send  thy 

blood 
Back  on  its  fount  ? — We  cannot  wake  them 

now  I 

The  storm  is  in  my  soul,  but  they  are  all 
At  rest ! — Ay,  sweetly  may  the  slaughtered 

babe 

By  its  dead  mother  sleep  ;  and  warlike  men 
Who  'midst  the  slain  have  slumbered  oft 

before,  , 

Making  the  shield  their  pillow,  may  repose 
Well,  now  their  toils  are  done. — Is't  not 

enough  ? 
Con.  Merciful  Heaven  I  have  such  things 

been  ?    And  yet 
There  is  no  shade  come  o'er  the  laughing 

sky!— 
I  am  an  outcast  now. 

Ans.  O  Thou,  whose  ways 
Clouds  mantle  fearfully  ;  of  all  the  blind, 
But  terrible,  ministers  that  work  thy  wrath. 
How  much  is  man  the  fiercest  1— Others 

"know 
Their  limits. — Yes  I  the  earthquakes,  and 

the  storms, 

And  the  volcanoes ! — He  alone  o'erleaps 
The  bounds  of  retribution  1 — Couldst  thou 

gaze, 

Vittoria  !  with  thy  woman's  heart  and  eye, 
On  such  dread  scenes  unmoved  ? 

Vit.  Was  it  for** 
To  stay  th'  avenging  sword  !— No,  though 

it  pierced 
My  very  soul  1 — Hark,  hark,  what  thrilling 

shrieks  [thou  not 

Ring  through  the.  air  around  me  1 — Canst 


266 


VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 


Bid  them  be  hushed?— Oh  I  look  not  on 

me  thus  1 
Ans.  Lady,  thy  thoughts  lend  sternness 

to  the  looks 
Which    are   but   sad  I  —  Have   all    then 

perished?  all? 
Was  there  no  mercy  ? 

Vit.  Mercy  I  it  hath  been 
A  word  forbidden  as  th"  unhallowed  names 
Of  evil  powers. — Yet  one  there  was  who 

dared 

To  own  the  guilt  of  pity,  and  to  aid 
The  victims ;   but  in   vain. — Of  him  no 

morel 

He  is  a  traitor,  and  a  traitor's  death 
Will  be  his  meed. 

Con.  (coming  forward),     O  Heaven  ! — 

his  name,  his  name  ? 
Is  it — it  cannot  be  ! 

Vit.  (starting).   Thou  here,  pale  girl ! 
I  deemed  thee  with  the  dead  1 — How  hast 

thou  'scaped 
The  snare  ? — Who  saved  thee,  last  of  all 

thy  race  ? 

Was  it  not  he  of  whom  I  spake  e'en  now, 
Raimond  di  Procida? 

Con.  It  is  enough. 

Now  the  storm  breaks  upon  me,  and  I  sink  ! 
Must  he,  too,  die? 

Vit.  Is  it  even  so  ? — why  then, 
Live  on — thou  hast  the  arrow  at  thy  heart ! 
Fix  not  on  me  thy  sad  reproachful  eyes, 
I  mean  not  to  betray  thee.    Thou  may'st 

livel 
Why  should  death  bring  thee  his  oblivious 

balms  ? 

He  visits  but  the  happy. — Didst  thou  ask 
If  Raimond  too  must  die? — It  is  as  sure 
As  that  his  blood  is  on  thy  head,  for  thou 
Didst  win  him  to  this  treason. 

Con.  When  did  man 
Call  mercy,  treason  ?— Take  my  life,  but 

save 
My  noble  Raimond  ! 

Vit.  Maiden  1  he  must  die. 
E'en    now  the  youth   before   his  judges 

stands, 
And  they  are  men  who,  to  the  voice  of 

prayer, 

Are  as  the  rock  is  to  the  murmured  sigh 
Of  summer- waves  ;  ay,  though  a  father  sit 
On  their  tribunal.     Bend  thou  not  to  >Je. 
What  wouldst  thou  ? 

Con.  Mercy  1 — Oh  I  wert  thou  to  plead 
But  with  a  look,  e'en  yet  he  might  be  saved  1 

If  thou  hast  ever  loved 

•  Vit.  If  I  have  loved? 
I  is  that  love  forbids  me  to  relent , 


I  am  what  it  hath  made  me. — O'er  my  soul 
Lightning    hath    passed,    and    seared   it. 

Could  I  weep, 

I  then  might  pity — but  it  will  not  be. 
Con.  Oh !     thou   wilt    yet    relent,    for 

woman's  heart 
Was  formed  to  suffer  and  to  melt. 

Vit.  Away  ! 
Why  should  I  pity  thee  ? — Thou  wilt  but 

prove 

What  I  have  known  before — and  yet  I  live  I 
Nature  is  strong,  and  it  may  all  be  borne — 
The  sick  impatient  yearning  of  the  heart 
For  that  which  is  not ;  and  the  weary  sense 
Of  the  dull  void,   wherewith  our  homes 

have  been 
Circled  by  death  ;  yes,  all  things  may  be 

borne ! 

All,  save  remorse. — But  I  will  not  bow  down 
My  spirit  to  that  dark  power : — there  was 

no  guilt  ! 
Anselmo !  wherefore  didst    thou    talk  of 

guilt? 
Ans.  Ay,  thus  doth  sensitive  conscience 

quicken  thought, 

Lending  reproachful  voices  to  a  breeze, 
Keen  lightning  to  a  look. 

Vit,  Leave  me  in  peace  I 
Is't  not  enough  that  I. should  have  a  sense 
Of  things  thou  canst  not  see,  all  wild  and 

dark, 

And  of  unearthly  whispers,  haunting  me 
With  dread  suggestions,  but  that  thy  cold 

words,  [conspire 

Old  man,  should  gall  me  too  ? — Must  all 
Against  me  ? — Oh  1  thou  beautiful  spirit  I 

wont  [love, 

To  shine  upon  my  dreams  with  looks  of 
Where  art  thou  vanished  ? — Was  it  not  the 

thought 

Of  thee  which  urged  me  to  the  fearful  task, 
And  wilt  thou  now  forsake  me  ? — I  must 

seek  [chance, 

The  shadowy  woods  again,  for  there,  pcr- 
Still  may   thy  voice  be    in  my  twilight- 
paths  ;  — 
Here  I.  but  meet  despair  ! 

[Exit,  VITTORIA. 
Ans.  (to   CONSTANCE).      Despair    not 

thou, 

My  daughter  ? — he  that  purifies  the  heart 
With  grief,  will  lend  it  strength. 

Con.  (endeavouring  to    roust    herself). 

Did  she  not  say 
That  some  one  was  to  die  ? 

Ans.  I  tell  thee  not 
Thy  pangs  are  vain— for  nature  Will  have 

way. 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 


267 


Earth  must  have  tears  ;  yet  in  a  heart  like 

thine, 
Faith  may  not  yield  its  place. 

Con.  Have  I  not  heard 
Some  fearful  tale? — Who  said,  that  there 

should  rest 
Blood    on    my   soul? — What    blood? — I 

never  bore 
Hatred,    kind    father,    unto   aught   that 

breathes ; 
Raimond  doth  know  it  well. — Raimond  I — 

High  heaven, 

It  bursts  upon  me  now ! — and  he  must  die ! 
For  my  sake — e'en  for  mine  1 

Arts.  Her  words  were  strange, 
And  her  proud  mind  seemed  half  to  frenzy 

wrought — 
Perchance  this  may  not  be. 

Con.  It  must  not  be. 
Why  do  I  linger  here  ? 

[She  riftt  te  depart. 
Ans.  Where  wouldst  thou  go? 
Con.  To  give  their  stern  and  unrelenting 

hearts 
A  victim  in  his  stead. 

Am.  Stay  I  wouldst  thou  rush 
On  certain  death? 

Con.  1  may  not  falter  now, — 
Is  not  the  life  of  woman  all  bound  up 
In  her  affections? — What  hath  she  to  do 
In  this  bleak  world  alone  ? — It  may  be  well 
For  man  on  his  triumphal  course  to  move 
Uncumbered  by  soft  bonds  ;  but  we  were 

bom 
For  love  and  grief. 

Ans.  Thou  fair  and  gentle  thing, 
Unused  to  meet  a  glance  which  doth  not 
speak  [thou 

Of  tenderness  or  homage !  how  shouldst 
Bear  the  hard  aspect  of  unpitying  men, 
Or  face  the  king  of  terrors  ? 

Cdu.  There  is  strength 
Deep  bedded  in  our  hearts,  of  which  we  reck 
But  little,  till  the  shafts  of  Heaven  have 

pierced 

Itsfragile  dwelling. — Must  not  earth  be  rent 
Before  her  gems  are  found  ? — Oh  I  now  I 

feel 

Worthy  the  generous  love  whirh  hath  not 
shunned  [given 

To  look  ofl  death  for  me  ! — My  heart  hath 
Birth  to  as  deep  a  courage,  and  a  faith 
As  high  in  its  devotion. 

[Exit  CONSTANCE. 
Ans.  She  is  gone  I 
Is  it  to  perish  ? — God  of  mercy  !  lend 
Power  to  my  voice,  that  so  its  prayer  may 
save 


This    pure   and    lofty    creature  t—  I    will 

follow — 

But  her  young  footstep  and  heroic  heart 
Will  bear  her  to  destruction  faster  far 
Than  I  can  track  her  path. 

[Exit  ANSELMO. 

SCENE  III.— Hall  of  a  Public  Building. 

PROCIUA,  MONTALBA,  GuiDO,  andothers, 
\eated  as  on  a  Tribunal. 

Pro.  The  morn  lowered  darkly,  but  the 

sun  hath  now, 
With  fierce  and  angry -splendour,  through 

the  clouds 

Burst  forth,  as  if  impatient  to  behold 
This,  our  high  triumph. — Lead  the  prisoner 

in. 

{RAIMOND  is  brought  in,  fettered  and 
guarded.) 

Why,  what  a  bright  and  fearless  brow  is 

here  I — 
Is  this  man  guilty? — Look  on  him,  Mon- 

talba  ? 
Man.  Be  firm.    Should  justice  falter  at 

a  look? 
Pro.  No,  thou  say'st  well.     Her  eyes  are 

filleted, 
Or  should  be  so.     Thcu,  that  dost  call 

thyself— 

But  no  I  I  will  not  breathe  a  traitor's  name — 
Speak  I  thou  art  arraigned  of  treason. 

Rai.  I  arraign 

You,  before  whom  I  stand,  of  darker 'guilt, 
In  the  bright  face  of  heaven  ;  and  your  own 

hearts 

Give  echo  to  the  charge.     Your  very  looks 
Have  ta'en  the  stamp  of  crime,  and  seem 

to  shrink, 
With  a  perturbed^  and  haggard  wildness, 

back 
From  the  too-searching  light. — Why,  what 

hath  wrought 
This  change  on  noble  brows? — There  is  a 

voice, 

With  a  .deep  answer,  rising  from  the  blood 
Your  hands  have  coldly  shed  1 — Ye  are  of 

those 
From  whom  just  m'en  recoil,  with  curdling 

veins, 

All  thrilled  by  life's  abhorrent  conscious- 
ness, 

And  sensitive  feeling  of  a  murderer  i  pre- 
sence.— 

Away  1  come  down  from  your  tribunal-seat, 
Put  off  your  robes  of  state,  and  let  you! 

mien 


268 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 


Be  pale  and  humbled ;  for  ye  bearabout  you 
That  which  repugnant  earth  doth  sicken  at, 
More  than  the  pestilence. — That  I  should 

live 

To  see  my  father  shrink ! 
Pro.  Montalba,  speak  1 
There's  something  chokes  my  voice — but 

fear  me  not. 
Man.  If  we  must  plead  to  vindicate  our 

acts, 
Be  it  when  thou  hast  made  thine  own  look 

clear  I 
Most  eloquent  youth  1  What  answer  canst 

thou  make 
To  this  our  charge  of  treason  ? 

Kai.  I  will  plead 

That  cause  before  a  mightier  judgment- 
throne, 

Where  mercy  is  not  guilt.    But  here,  I  feel 
Too  buoyantly  the  glory  and  the  joy 
Of  my  free  spirit's  whiteness  ;  for  e'en  now 
Tli'  embodied  hideousness  of  crime  doth 

seem 

Before  me  glaring  out. — Why,  1  saw  ihee, 
Thy  foot  upon  an  aged  warrior's  breast, 
Trampling    our    nature's    last   convulsive 

heavings. — 
And  thou — thy  sword — oh!  valiant  chief  1 — 

is  yet 
Red  from  the  noble  stroke  which  pierced, 

at  once, 

A  mother  and  the  babe,  whose  little  life 
Was  from  her  bosom  drawn  1 — Immortal 

deeds 
For  bards  to  hymn  1 

Gui.  (aside).  I  look  upon  his  mien, 
And  waver. — Can  it  be? — My  boyish  heart 
Deemed  him  so  noble  once  1 — Away,  weak 

thoughts  1 
Why  should  I  shrink,  as  if  the  guilt  were 

mine, 
From  his  proud  glance  ? 

Pro.  Oh,  thou  dissembler  I — thou, 
So  skilled  to  clothe  with  virtue's  generous 

flush 

The  hollow  cheek  of  cold  hypocrisy, 
That,  with  thy  guilt  made  manifest,  I  can 

scarce 

Believe  thee  guilty  I — look  on  me,  and  say 
Whose  was  the  secret  warning  voice,  that 

saved 

De  Couci  with  his  bands,  to  join  our  foes, 
And  forge  new  fetters  for  th'  indignant  land  ? 
Whose  was  this  treachery? 

[Shows  him  papers. 
Who  hath  promised  here, 
(Belike  to  appease  the  manes  of  the  dead,) 
At  midnight  to  unfold  Palermo's  gates. 


And  welcome  in  the  foe  ? — Who  hatli  done 

this, 
But  thou,  a  tyrant's  friend  ? 

Rai.  Who  hath  done  this  ? 
Father  1 — if  I  may  call  thee  by  that  name- 
Look,   with    thy  piercing   eye,   on    those 

whose  smiles 
Were  masks  that  hid  theirdaggers.— There, 

perchance, 
May  lurk  what  loves  not  light  too  strong. 

For  me, 
I  know  but   this — there   needs   no  deep 

research 
To  prove  the  truth— that  murderers  may  be 

traitors 

E'en  to  each  other. 
Pro.   (to  MONTALBA).   His  unaltering 

cheek 

Still  vividly  doth  hold  its  natural  hue, 
And  his  eye  quails  not  1 — Is  this  innocence? 
Man.  No  I  'tis  th'  unshrinking  hardihood 

of  crime. — 
Thou  bear'st  a  gaflant  mien  ! — But  where 

is  she 
Whom  thou  hast  bartered  fame  and  life  to 

save, 
The  fair  Provencal  maid  ? — What !  know'st 

thou  not 

That  this  alone  were  guilt,  to  death  allied  I 
Was't  not  our  law  that  he  who  spared  a  foe 
(And  is  she  not  of  that  detested  race  ?) 
Should  thenceforth  be  amongst  us  as  a 

foe?— 
Where  hast  thou  borne  her  ? — speak  I 

Rai.  That  Heaven,  whose  eye 
Burns  up  thy  soul  with  its  far-searching 

glance, 
Is  with  her ;  she  is  safe. 

Pro.  And  by  that  word  [died 

Thy  doom  is  sealed.— O  God  !  that  I  had 
Before  this  bitter  hour,  in  the  full  strength 
And  glory  of  my  heart  I 

CONSTANCE  enters,  and  rushes  to 
RAIMOND. 

Con.  Oh  1  art  thou  found  ? — 
But  yet,  to  find  thee  thus  1 — Chains,  chains 

for  thee  I 
My  brave,  my  noble  love  1 — Off  with  these 

bonds ; 

Let  him  be  free  as  air : — for  I  am  come 
To  be  your  victim  now.     • 
Rai.  Death  has  no  pang 
More  keen  than  this. — Oh  I  wherefore  art 

thou  here  ? 

I  could  have  died  so  calmly,  deeming  thee 
Saved,  and  at  peace. 
Con,.  At'peac  1— And  thou  bast  thought 


TEE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 


269 


Phtis  poorly  of  my  love ! — But  woman's 

breast 
Hath  strength  to  suffer  too. — Thy  rather 

sits 

On  this  tribunal ;  Raimond,  which  is  he  ? 
Rai.  My  father  1 — who  hath  lulled  thy 

gentle  heart 
With    that   false   hope  ? — Beloved  I    gase 

around — 

See,  if  thine  eye  can  trace  a  father's  soul 
In  the  dark  looks  bent  on  us. 

CONSTANCE,  after  earnestly  examining  the 
countenances  of  the  Judges,  falls  at  the 
feet  of  PROCIDA. 

Con,  Thou  art  he  ! 

Nay,  turn  thou  not  away  I — for  I  beheld 
Thy  proud  lip  quiver,  and  a  watery  mist 
Pass  o'er  thy  troubled  eye ;  and  then  I  knew 
Thou  wert  his  father  1 — Spare  him  1 — take 

my  life, 

In  truth  a  worthless  sacrifice  for  his, 
But  yet  mine  all. — Oh  !  he  hath  still  to  run 
A  long  bright  race  of  gloijy. 
Rai.  Constance,  peace  ! 
I  look  upon  thee,  and  my  failing  heart 
Is  as  a  broken  reed. 

Con.  (still  addressing  PROCIDA).    Oh, 

yet  relent ! 

If  'twas  his  crime  to  rescue  me,  behold 
I  come  to  be  the  atonement  I    Let  him  live 
To  crown  thine  age  with  honour. — In  thy 

heart  [pleads 

There's  a  deep  conflict ;  but  great  nature 
With  an  o'ermastering  voice,  and  thou  wilt 

yield  !— 
Thou  art  his  father ! 

Pro.  (after  a  pause).    Maiden,  thou'rt 

deceived  I 

I  am  as  calm  as  that  dead  pause  of  nature 
Ere  the  full  thunder  bursts. — A  judge  is  not 
Father  or  friend.  Who  calls  this  man  my 

son? — 
My  son  ! — Ay  I   thus  his  mother  proudly 

smiled — 

But  she  was  noble  ! — Traitors  stand  alone, 
Loosed  from  all  ties. — Why  should  I  trifle 

thus?— 
Bear  her  away  1 

Rai.  (starting forward).  And  whither? 
Afon,  Unto  death. 
Why  should  she  live  when  all  her  race  have 

perished? 
Con.  (sinking into  tkearms  ^RAIMOND). 

Raimond,  farewell ! — Oh  1   when   thy 

star  hath  risen 

To  its  bright  noon,  forget  not,  best  beloved, 
I  rtiwi  for  thee  I 


Rai.    High  heaven !    thou  seest  these 

things ; 
And  yet  endur'st  them  1 — Shalt  thou  die 

for  me, 

Purest  and  loveliest  being  ?— :but  our  fate 
May  not  divide  us  long.      Her  cheek  is 

cold — 
Her  deep  blue  eyes  are  closed. — Should  this 

be  death  I — 
If  thus,  there  yet  were  mercy  1 — Father, 

father  I 
Is  thy  heart  human  ? 

Pro.  Bear  her  hence,  I  say ! 
Why  must  my  soul  be  torn  ? 

ANSELMO  enters,  holding  a  crucifix. 

Ans.  Now,  by  this  sign 
Of  Heaven's  prevailing  love,  ye  shall  not 

harm 
One  ringlet  of  her  head.— Howl  is  there 

not 
Enough  of  blood  upon  your  burtbened 

souls? 

Will  not  the  visions  of  your  midnight  couch 
Be  wild  and  dark  enough,  but  ye  must  heap 
Crime  upon  crime  ? — Be  ye  content : — your 

dreams, 

Your  councils,  and  yourbanquetings  n\\\  yet 
Be  haunted  by  the  voice  which  d<  >h  not 

sleep, 

E'en  though  this  maid  be  spared  I — Con- 
stance, look  up  1 
Thou  shall  not  die. 

Rai.  Oh  !  death  e'en  now  hath  veiled 
The  light  of  her  soft  beauty.— Wake,  my 

love ; 
Wake  at  my  voice ! 

Pro.  Anselmo.  lead  her  hence, 
And  let  her  live,  but  never  meet  my  sigh?. — 
Begone  ! — My  heart  will  burst. 

Rai.  One  last  embrace  ! — 
Again  life's  rose  is  opening  on  her  cheek  ; 
Yet  must  we  part. — So  love  is  crushed  on 

earth! 
But  there  are  brighter  worlds  I— Farewell, 

farewell  I 

\He  gives  her  to  the  care  of  ANSELMO. 
Con.  (slowly  recovering].  There  was  a 

voice  which  called  me. — Am  I  not 
A  spirit  freed  from  earth  ?— Have  I  not 

passed 

The  bitterness  of  death  ? 
Ans.  Oh,  haste  away  ! 
Con.  Yes  !  Raimond  calls  me. — He  too 

is  released 

From  bis  cold  bondage.  — We  are  free  at  last, 
And  all  is  well — Away  1 

[She  is  Ud  out  by  ANSELMO 


270 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 


Rai.  The  pang  is  o'er, 
And  I  have  but  to  die. 
Man.  Now,  Fvocida, 
Comes  thy  great  task.   WaRe  1  summon  to 

thine  aid 

All  thy  deep  soul's  commanding  energies ; 
For  thou — a  chief  among  us — must  pro- 
nounce 

The  sentence  of  thy  son.    It  rests  with  thee. 
Pro.  Ha  1  ha  ! — Men's  hearts  should  be 

of  softer  mould 
Than  in  the  elder  time. — Fathers  could 

doom 
Their  children  then  with  an  unfaltering 

voice, 

And  we  must  tremble  thus  1 — Is  it  not  said, 
That  nature  grows  degenerate,  earth  being 

now 

So  full  of  days  ? 

Man,  Rouse  up  thy  mighty  heart. 
Pro.  Ay,  thou  say'st  right.    There  yet 

are  souls  which  tower 
As  landmarks  to  mankind. — Well,  what's 

the  task  ?— 

There  is  a  man  to  be  condemned,  you  say  ? 
Is  he  then  guilty  ? 

All.  This  we  deem  of  him 
With  one  accord. 

Pro.  And  hath  he  nought  to  plead  ? 
Rai.  Nought  but  a  soul  unstained. 
Pro.  Why,  that  is  little. 
Stains  on  the  soul  are  but  as  conscience 

deems  them, 
And  conscience  may  be  seared. — But,  for 

this  sentence ! — 

Was't  not  the  penalty  imposed  on  man, 
E'en  from  creation's  dawn,  that  he  must 

die?— 

It  was  :  thus  making  guilt  a  sacrifice 
Unto  eternal  justice  ;  and  we  but 
Obey  Heaven's  mandate,  when  we  cast  dark 

souls 

To  th'  elements  from  amongst  us. — Be  it  so! 
Such  be  his  doom  !— I  have  said.    Ay,  now 

my  heart 
Is  girt  with  adamant,  whose  cold  weight 

doth  press 
Its  gaspings  down. — Off!    let  me  breathe 

in  freedom  ! — 
Mountains  are  on  my  breast ! 

[He  sinks  bach, 

Man.  Guards,  bear  the  prisoner 
Back  to  his  dungeon. 

Rai.  Father  !  oh,  look  up 
Thou  art  my  father  still ! 

GUIDO,  leaving  the  Tribunal,  throws  kim- 
ulfon  the  neck  </ RAIMOND. 


Gat.  Oh  I  Raimond,  Raimond ! 
If  it  should  be  that  I  have  wronged  thee,  say 
Thou  dost  forgive  me. 

fiai.  Friend  of  my  young  days, 
So  may  ~v\  pitying  Heaven ! 

[RAIMOND  is  led  out. 
Pro.  Whose  voice  was  that  ? 
Where  is  he  ? — gone  ? — now  I  may  breathe 

once  more 

In  the  free  air  of  Heaven.    Let  us  away. 
[Exeunt  omna. 

ACT  THE  FIFTH. 
SCENE  I.—  A  Prison,  dimly  lighted. 
RAIMOND  sleeping.    PROCIDA  enters. 

Pro.  (gazing  upon  him  earnestly).  Can 
he  then-  sleep? — Th'  o'ershadowing 
night  hath  wrapt 

Earth,  at  her  stated  hours— the  stars  have 
set  [their  course 

Their  burning  watch  ;  and  all  things  hold 

Of  wakefulness  and  rest ;  yet  hath  not  sleep 

Sat  on  mine  eyelids  since— but  this  avails 
not  !— 

A'nd  thus  he  slumbers ! — Why  this  mien 
doth  seem 

As  if  its  soul  were  but  one  lofty  thought 

Of  an  immortal  desfiny  ! — his  brow 

Is  calm  as  waves  whereon   the  midnight 
heavens 

Are   imaged    silently. — Wake,    Raimond, 
wake  1 

Thy  rest  is  deep. 

Rai.  (starting up}.  My  father  !— Where- 
fore here  ? 

I  am  prepared  to  die,  yet  would  I  not 

Fall  by  thy  hand. 
Pro.  'Twas  not  for  this  I  came. 
Rai.  Then  wherefore? — and   upon  thy 
lofty  brow 

Why  bums  the  troubled  flush  ? 
Pro.  Perchance  'tis  shame. 

Yes  1   it  may  well  be  shame  ! — for  I  have 
striven 

With  nature's  feebler.css,  and  been  o'er- 
powered. — 

Howe'er  it  be,  'tis  not  for  thee  to  gaze, 

Noting  it  Ihus.     Rise,  let  me  loose  thy 
chains. 

Arise,  and  follow  me  ;  but  let  thy  step 

Fall  without  sound  on  earth  :   I  have  pre- 
pared 

The  means  for  thy  escape. 
Rai.  What  1  thou !  the  austere* 

The  inflexible  Procida !  hast  thou  done  this 

Deeming  me  guilty  still  ? 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO 


271 


Pro.  Upbraid  me  not  I 
It  is  even  so.   There  have  been  nobler  deeds 
By  Roman  fathers,  done, — but  I  am  weak. 
Therefore,  again  t  say,  arise  I  and  haste, 
For  the  night  wanes.    Thy  fugitive  course 

must  be 

I'o  realms  beyond  the  deep ;  so  let  us  part 
In  silence,  and  for  ever. 

Rai.  Let  him  fly 

Who  holds  no  deep  asylum  in  his  breast, 
Wherein    to  shelter    from    the  scoffs  of 

men  I — 

I  can  sleep  calmly  here. 
-Pro.  Art  thou  in  love 
With  death  and  infamy,  that  so  thy  choice 
Is  made,  lost  boy  1  when  freedom  courts 

thy  grasp  ? 

Rai.  Father  I  to  set  th'  irrevocable  seal 
Upon    that   shame    wherewith    ye   have 

branded  me, 
There  needs  but  flight.— What  should  I 

bear  from  this, 

My  native  land  ? — A  blighted  name,  to  rise 
And  part  me,  with  its  dark  remembrances, 
For  ever  from  the  sunshine! — O'er  my  soul 
Bright  shadowings  of  a  nobler  destiny 
Float  in  dim  beauty  through  the  gloom  ; 

but  here, 

On  earth,  my  hopes  are  closed. 
Pro.  Thy  hopes  are  closed  I 
And  what  were  they  to  mine ? — Thou  wilt 

not  fly  I 

Why,  let  all  traitors  flock  to  thee,  and  learn 
How  proudly  guilt  can  talk  ! — Let  fathers 

rear 
Their  offspring  henceforth,  as  the  free  wild 

birds 
Foster  their  young  ;  when  these  can  mount 

alone, 
Dissolving  nature's  bonds— why  should  it 

not 
Be  so  with  us  ?  . 

Rai.  Oh,  father !— Now  1  feel 
What  high  prerogatives  belong  to  death. 
He  hath  a  deep  though  voiceless  eloquence, 
To  which  I  leave  my  cause.     His  solemn 

veil 
Doth  with  mysterious  beauty  clothe  our 

virtues, 

And  in  its  vast  oblivious  fold,  for  ever 
Give  shelter  to  our  faults. — When  I  am 

gone, 
The  mists  of  passion  which  have  dimmed 

my  name 

Will  melt  like  day-dreams ;  and  my  me- 
mory then 
Will  be— not  what  it  should  have  been— 

for  I 


Must  pass  without  my  fame — bat  yet,  un- 
stained 
As  a  clear  morning  dewdrop.    Oh !  the 

grave 

Hath  rights  inviolate  as  a  sanctuary's, 
And  they  should  be  my  own  1 
Pro.  Now,  by  just  Heaven, 
I  will  not  thus  be  tortured  I — Were  my  heart 
But  of  thy  guilt  or  innocence  assured, 
I  could  be  calm  again.     But,  in  this  wild 
Suspense, — this  conflict  and  vicissitude 
Of  opposite   feelings   and   convictions — 

what! 

Hath  it  been  mine  to  temper  and  to  bend 
All  spirits  to  my  purpose  ;  have  I  raised 
With  a  severe  and  passionless  energy, 
From  the  dread  mingling  of  their  elements, 
Storms  which  have  rocked  the  earth  ? — And 

shall  I  now 

Thus  fluctuate,,  as  a  feeble  reed,  the  scorn 
And  plaything  of  the  winds  ? — Look  on  me, 

boy  I 
Guilt  never  dared  to  meet  these  eyes,  and 

keep 
Its  heart's  dark  secret  close.— Oh,  pitying 

Heaven  1 

Speak  to  my  soul  with  some  dread  oracle, 
And  tell  me  which  is  truth. 

Rai.  I  will  not  plead. 
I  will  not  call  th'  Omnipotent  to  attest 
My  innocence.     No,  father,  in  thy  heart 
I  know  my  birthright  shall  be  soon  restored; 
Therefore  I  look  to  death,  and  bid  thee  speed 
The  great  absolver. 

Pro.  Oh  !  my  son,  my  son  I 
We  will  not  part  in  wrath  1 — the  sternest 

hearts, 

Within  their  proud  and  guarded  fastnesses, 
Hide  something  still,  round  which  their 

tendrils  cling 
With  a  close  grasp,  unknown  to  those  who 

dress 
Their  love  in  smiles.    And  such  wert  thou 

to  me ! 
The  all  which  taught  me  that  my  soul  was 

cast 
In  nature's  mould. — And  I  must  now  hold 

on 

My  desolatecourse  alone ! — Why,  be  it  thus ! 
He  that  doth  guide  a  nation's  star  should 

dwell 

High  o'er  the  clouds  in  regal  solitude, 
Sufficient  to  himself. 

Rai.  Yet,  on  that  summit, 
When  with  her  bright  wings  glory  shadows 

thee, 

Forget  not  him  who  coldly  sleeps  beneath, 
Yet  might  have  soared  as  nieh  I 


272 


•TEE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 


Pro.  No,  fear  thou  not !  [worm 

Thou'lt  be  remembered  long.    Thecanker- 
O1  th'  heart  is  ne'er  forgotten. 

Rai.  Oh  1  not  thus — 
I  would  not  tkut  be  thought  of. 

Pro.  Let  me  deem 
Again  that  thou  ait  base  I — for  thy  bright 

looks, 

Thy  glorious  mien  of  fearlessness  and  truth, 
Then  would  not  haunt  me  as  th'  avenging 

powers 

Followed  the  parricide. — Farewell,  farewell  1 
I  have  no  tears. — Oh  I  thus  thy  mother 

looked, 

When  with  a  sad,  yet  half-triumphant  smile, 
All  radiant  with  deep  meaning,  from  her 

deathbed 
She  gave  thee  to  my  arms. 

Rai.  Now  death  has  lost 
His  sting,  since  thou  believ'st  me  innocent. 
Pro.  (wildly).    Thou  innocent  I — Am  I 

thy  murderer  then  ? 

Away  1  I  tell  thee  thou  hast  made  my  name 
A  scorn  to  men  1 — Not  I  will  not  forgive  thee ; 
A.  traitor  I — What  I  the  blood  of  Procida 
Filling  a  traitor's  veins  I— Let  the  earth 

drink  it ; 
Thou  wouldst  receive  our  foes !— but  they 

shall  meet 

From  thy  perfidious  lips  a  welcome,  cold 
As  death  can  make  it.— Go,  prepare  thy 

soul! 

Rai.  Father  !  yet  hear  me ! 
Pro.  No  1  thou'rt  skilled  to  make 
E'en  shame  look  fain—Why  should  I  linger 
thus? 

(Going  to  leave  the  prison-he  turns 

back  for  a  moment.) 
If  there  be'aught— Caught— for  which  thou 

need'st 
Forgiveness— not  of  me,  but  that  dread 

Power 
From  whom  no  heart  is  veiled— delay  thou 

not 

Thy  prayer  : — Time  hurries  o.n. 
Rai.  I  am  prepared. 
Pro.  'Tis  well.  [Exit  PROCIDA. 

Rai.  Men   talk  of  torture  1— Can  they 

wreak 

Upon  the  sensitive  and  shrinking  frame, 
Half  the  mind  bears,  and  lives?— My  spirit 

feels 
Bewildered ;  on  its  powers  this  twilight 

gloom 
Hangs  like  a  weight  of  earth.— It  should  be 

morn  ; 

Why,  then,  perchance,  a  beam  of  Heavens 
bright  sun 


Hath  pierced,  ere  now,  the  grating  of  any 

dungeon, 
Telling  of  hope  and  mercy  ! 

[Exit  into  an  inner  cell. 

SCENE  II. — A  Street  of  Palermo. 
Many  CITIZENS  assembled. 

First  Cit.  The  morning  breaks  ;  his  time 

is  almost  come : 
Will  he  be  led  this  way  ? 

Second  Cit.  Ay,  so  'tis  said, 
To  die  before  that  gate  through  which  he 

purposed 
The  foe  should  enter  in. 

Third  Cit.  'Twas  a  vile  plot  1 
And  yet  I  would  my  hands  were  pure  as  his 
From  the  deep  stain  of  blood.    Didst  hear 

the  sounds 
I"  th'  air  last  night  ? 
Second  Cit.  Since  the    great  work  of 

slaughter, 
Who  hath  not  heard  them  duly,  at  those 

hours 
Which  should  be  silent  ? 

Third  Cit.  Oh  !  the  fearful  mingling, 
The  terrible  mimicry-of  human  voices, 
In  every  sound  which  to  the  heart  doth 

speak 
Of  woe  and  death. 

Second  Cit.  Ay,  there  was  woman's  shrill 
And  piercing  cry  ;  and  the  low  feeble  wail 
Of  dying  infants ;  and  the  half-suppressed 
Deep  groan  of  man  in  his  last  agonies  1 
And  now  and  then  there  swelled  upon  the 

breeze 
Strange,  savage  bursts  of  laughter  wilder 

far 
Than  all  the  rest. 

First  Cit.  Of  our  own  fate,  perchance, 
These  awful  midnight  waitings    may  be 

deemed 

An  ominous  prophecy. — Should  France  re- 
gain 
Her  power  amongst  us,  doubt  not,  we  shall 

have 
Stern  reckoners  to  account  with.— Hark  \ 

( The  sound  of  trumpets  is  heard  at  a 
distance.) 

Second  Cit.  'Twas  but 
A  rushing  of  the  breeze. 

Third  Cit.  E'en  now,  'tis  said, 


(The  sound  is  heard  gradually  drawing 
nearer.) 

Stcon&Cit.  Again  !— that  sound 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 


273 


Was  no  illusion.     Nearer  yet  it  swells— 
They  come,  they  come  1 

PKOCIDA  enters. 

Pro.  The  foe  is  at  your  gates  ; 
But  hearts  and  hands  prepared  shall  meet 

his  onset : 
Why  are  ye  loitering  here? 

Cits.  My  lord,  we  came 

Pro.  Think  ye  I  know  not  wherefore?— 

'twas  to  see 

A  fellow-being  die  I— Ay,  'tis  a  sight 
Man  loves,  to  look  on,  and  the  tenderest 

hearts 
Recoil,  and  yet  withdraw  not,  from  the 

scene. 
For  this  ye  came— What !  is  our  nature 

fierce, 

Or  is  there  that  in  mortal  agony 
From   which    the    soul,  exulting    in   its 

strength, 
Doth  learn  immortal  lessons  ?— Hence,  and 

arm  1  [seen 

Ere  the  night  dews  descend,  ye  will  nave 
Enough  of  death  ;  for  this  must  be  a  day 
Df  battle  I — Tis  the  hour  which  troubled 

souls 

Delight  in,  for  its  rushing  storms  are  wings 
Which  bear  them  up  t — Arm,  arm  I  'tis 

for  your  homes, 

And  all  that  lends  them  loveliness.— Away  ! 
[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— Prison  (/RAIMOND. 

RAIMOND.    ANSELMO. 

Rai.  And   Constance  then    is   safe  I — 

Heaven  bless  thee,  father  ; 
Good  angels  bear  such  comfort. 

Am.  I  have  found 

A  safe  asylum  for  thine  honoured  love, 
Where  she  may  dwell  until  serener  days, 
With  Saint  Rosolia's  gentlest  daughters  ; 
i        those 

Whose  hallowed  office  is  to  tend  the  bed 
Of  pain  and  death,  and  soothe  the  parting 

i  SOUl 

With  their  soft  hymns  :  and  therefore  are 

they  called 
"  Sisters  of  Mercy." 
,  Rai.  Oh  I  that  name,  my  Constance, 
Befits  thee  well  1  E'en  in  our  happiest  days, 
There  was  a  depth  of  tender  pensiveness 
Far  in  thine  eye's  dark  azure,  speaking  ever 
Of  pity  and  mild  grief, — Is  she  at  peace  ? 
Ans.  Alas  1  what  should  I  say  ? 
Kai.  Why  did  I  ask? 
Knowing' the  deep  and  full  devotedness 


Of  her  young  heart's  affections  ?— Oh  I  tb« 

thought 

Of  my  untimely  fate  will  haunt  her  dreams, 
Which  should  hare  been  so  tranquil ! — 

And  her  soul, 
Whose  strength  was  but  the  lofty  gift  of 

love, 
Even  until  death  will  sicken. 

Am.  All  that  faith 
Can  yield  of  comfort,  shall  assuage  her 

woes; 
And  still   whate'er  betide,   the  light   of 

Heaven 
Rests  on  her  gentle  heart.    But  thou,  my 

sonl 

Is  thy  young  spirit  mastered,  and  prepared 

For  nature's-fearful  and  mysterious  change? 

Rai.  Ay,  father  1  of  my  brief  remaining 

task 

The  least  part  is  to  die  1— And  yet  the  cup 
Of  life  still  mantled  brightly  to  my  lips, 
Crowned  with  that  sparkling  bubble,  whose 

proud  name 
Is— glory  I— Oh  1  my  soul,  from  boyhood's 

morn, 
Hath  nursed  such  mighty  dreams  I— It  was 

my  hope 
To  leave  a  name,  whose  echo,  from  the 

abyss 
Of  time,  should  rise,  and  float  upon  the 

winds 

Into  the  far  hereafter :  there  to  be 
A  trumpet-sound,  a  \oice  from  the  deep 

tomb, 
Murmuring — Awake ! — Arise  ! — But  this  is 

past  I 
Erewhile,  and.  it  had  seemed  enough  of 

shame 

To  sleep  forgotten  in  the  dust — but  now — 
O  God  I — the  undying  record  of  my  grave 
Will  be,— Here  sleeps  a  traitor  1— One 

whose  crime 
Was — to  deem  brave  men  might  find  nobler 

weapons 
Than  the  cold  murderer's  dagger  I 

Am.  Oh,  my  son, 
Subdue  these  troubled  thoughts  1     Fhou 

wouldst  not  change 
Thy  lot  for  theirs,  o'er  whose  dark  dreams 

will  hang 

The  avenging  shadows,  which  the  blood- 
stained soul 
Doth  conjure  from  the  dead  !' 

Rai.  Thou'rt  right.     I  would  not. 
Yet  'tis  a  weary  task  to  schqol  the  heart, 
Ere  years  or  griefs  have  tamed  its  fiery 

spirit 
Into  that  still  and  passive  fortitude, 


274 


TEE  VESPEX8  OF  PALERMO. 


Which  is  but  learned  from  suffering. — 

Would  the  hour 
To  hush  these  passionate  throbbings  were 

at  hand ! 
A  MS.  It  will  not  be  to-day.     Hast  thou 

not  heard — 
But  no— the  rush,  the  trampling,  and  the 

stir 

Of  this  great  city,  arming  in  her  haste, 
Pierce  not  these  dungeon-depths. — The  foe 

hath  reached 

Our  gates,  and  all  Palermo's  youth,  and  all 
Her  warrior-men,  are  marshalled,  and  gone 

forth 

In  that  high  hope  which  makes  realities, 
To  the  red  field.   Thy  father  leads  them  on. 
Rai.  (starting  up.)  They  are  gone  forth ! 

my  father  leads  them  on  1 
All,  all  Palermo's  youth  I — No,  one  is  left, 
Shut  out  from  glory's  race  I— They  are  gone 

forth  !— 

Ay  t  now  the  soul  of  battle  is  abroad, 
It  burns  upon  the  air  ! — The  joyous  winds 
Are  tossing  warrior-plumes,  the  proud  white 

foam 

Of  battle's  roaring  billows  I— On  my  sight 
The  vision  bursts— it  maddens  1  'tis  the 

flash,  [cloud 

The  lightning-shook  of  lances,  and   the 
Of  rushing  arrows,  and  the  broad  full  blaze 
Of  helmets  in  the  sun  ! — The  very  steed 
With  his  majestic  rider  glorying  shares 
The  hour's  stem  joyv  and  waves  his  floating 

mane 

As  a  triumphant  banner  I— Such  things  are 
Even  now — and  I  am  here ! 

Ans.  Alas,  be  calm  1 
To  the  same  grave  ye  press, — thou  that  dost 

pine  [rule 

Beneath  a  weight  of  chains, — and  they  that 
The  fortunes  of  the  fight. 

Rai.  Ay  1  Thou  canst  feel 
The  calm  thou  wouldst  impart,  for  unto 

thee 

All  men  alike,  the  warrior  and  the  slave, 
Seem,  as  thou  say'st,  but  pilgrims,  pressing 

on 
To  the  same  bourne. — Yet  call  it  not  the 

samel 
Their  graves,  who  fall  in  this  day's  fight, 

will  be 

As  altars  to  their  country,  visited 
By  fathers  with  their  children,    bearing 

wreaths, 

And  chanting  hymns  in  honour  of  '.he  dead : 
Will  mine  be  such  ? 

VlTTOBiA  rushes  in  wildly,  tu  if 
pursued. 


Vit.  Anselrrio !  art  thou  found ! 
Haste,  haste,  or  all  is  lost !   Perchance  thy 

voice, 
Whereby  they  deem  Heaven  speaks,  thy 

lifted  cross, 
And  prophet^iien,  may  stay  the  fugitives, 
Or  shame  them  back  to  die. 

Am.  The  fugitives  1 

What  words  CT?  these  ?— the  sons  of  Sicily 
Fly  not  before  the  foe? 

Vit.  That  I  should  say 
It  is  too  true! 

Ans.  And  thou — thou  bleedest,  lady ! 
Vit.  Peace  1  heed  not  me,  when  Sicily  is 

lost! 
1  stood  upon  the  walls,  and  watched  our 

bands, 

As,  with  their  ancient,  royal  banner  spread. 
Onward  they  marched.  •  The  combat  was 

begun, 

The  fiery  impulse  given,  and  valiant  men 
Had  sealed  their  freedom  with  their  blood- 
when  lo  I 

That  false  Alberti  led  bis  recreant  vassals 
To  join  th'  invader's  host. 

Rai.  His  country's  curse 
Rest  on  the  slave  for  ever  I 

Vit.  Then  distrust 
E'en  of  their  nobler  leaders,  and  dismay, 
That  swift  contagion,  on  Palermo's  bands 
Came  like  a  deadly  blight.    They  fled  \T- 

Oh,  shame ! 
E'en  now  they  fly  I — Ay,  through  the  city 

gates 

They  rush,  as  if  all  Etna's  burning  streams 
Pursued  their  winged  steps  I 

Rai.  Thou  hast  not  named 

Their  chief— Di  Procida — He  doth  not  fly  ? 

Vit.  No  I  like  a  kingly  lion  in  the  toils, 

Daring  the  hunters  yet,  he  proudly  strives, 

But  all  in  vain  t    The  few  that  breast  the 

storm, 

With  Guido  and  Montalba,  by  his  side, 
Fight  but  for  graves  Upon  the  battle-field. 
Rai.  And  I  am  heref— Shall  there  be 

power,  O  God  1 

In  the  roused  energies  of  fierce  despair, 
To  burst  my  heart — and  not  to  rend  my 

chains? 

Oh,  for  one  moment  of  the  thunderbolt 
To  set  the  strong  man  free  I 

Vit.  (after  gazing  upon  him  earnestly). 

Why,  'twere  a  deed 

Worthy  the  fame  and  blessing  of  all  time, 
To  loose  thy  bonds,  thou  son  of  Procida  ! 
Thou  art  no  traitor ; — from  thy  kindled  hro\t 
Looks  out  thy  lofty  soul  I — Arise  1  go  forth 
And  rouse  the  noble  heart  of  Sicily 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 


275 


Unto  high  deeds  again.     Anselmo,  haste  ; 
Unbind  him  1    Let  my  spirit  still  prevail, 
Ere  I  depart— for  the  strong  hand  of  death 
Is  on  me  now. — 

[She  sinks  back  against  a  pillar. 

Ans.  Oh  Heaven  1  the  life-blood  streams 

Fast  from  thy  heart— thy  troubled  eyes  grow 

dim. 
Who  hath  done  this? 

Vit.  Before  the  gates  I  stood, 
And  in  the  name  of  him,  the  loved  and  lost, 
With  whom  I  soon  shall  be,  all  vainly  strove 
To  stay  the  shameful  flight.    Then  from 

the  foe, 
Fraught  with  my  summons  to  his  viewless 

home, 
Came  the  fleet  shaft  which  pierced  me. 

Ant.  Yet,  oh  yet, 
It  may  not  be  too  late.    Help,  help  I 

Vit.  Away  1 
Bright  is  the  hour  which  brings  me  liberty! 

ATTENDANTS  enter, 

Haste,  be  those  fetters  riven  I— Unbar  the 

gates, 
And  set  the  captive  free  I 

[The  ATTENDANTS  seem  to  hesitate. 

Know  ye  not  her 
Who  should  have  worn  your  country's 

diadem? 
Atten.  Oh,  lady,  we  obey, 

[They  take  off  RAIMOND'S  chains. 
He  springs  up  exultingly. 

Rat.  Is  this  no  dream  ?— 
Mount,  eagle  I  thou  art  free  1— Shall  I  then 

die, 

Not  'midst  the  mockery  of  insulting  crowds, 
But  on  the  field  of  banners,  where  the  brave 
Are  striving  for  an  immortality? — 
It  is  e'en  so  1 — Now  for  bright  arms  of  proof, 
A  helm,  a  keen-edged  falchion,  and  e'en  yet 
My  father  may  be  saved  1 

Vit.  Away,  be  strong  I 
And  let  thy  battle-word,  to  rule  the  storm, 
Be  Conradin  I  [He  rushes  out. 

Oh  1  for  one  hour  of  life 
To  hear  that  name  blent  with  the  exulting 
shout  [power 

Of  victory ! — 'twill  not  be  !— A  mightier 
Doth  summon  me  away. 

Ans.  To  purer  worlds 
Raise  thy  last  thoughts  in  hope. 

Vit.  Yes  I  he  is  there, 
All  glorious  in  his  beauty  I — Conradin  I 
Death  parted  us — anddeath  shall  re-unite  1 — 
He  will  not  stay — it  is  all  darkness  now  ; 
Night,  gathers  o'er  my  spirit,       [$fu  dia. 


Ans.  She  is  gone. 

It  is  an  awful  hour  which  stills  the  heart 
That  beat  so  proudly  once. T— Have  mercy, 
Heaven  1  [He  kneels  beside  her. 

(The  scene  closes.) 

SCENE  \\.-Before  the  Gates  of  Palermo. 

SICILIANS  flying  tumultuously  towards  tht 
Gates. 

Voices  (without).  Montjoy  1  Montjoy  I  St. 

Denis  for  Anjou  I 
Proven9als  on  1 
Sic.  Fly,  fly,  t>«  all  is  lost  I 

RAIMOND  appears  in  the  gateway,  armed, 
and  carrying  a  banner. 

Rai.  Back,  back,  I  say  I  ye  men  of  Sicily  I 
All  is  not  lost  t    Oh,  shame  I— A  few  brave 

hearts  . 
In  such  a  cause,  ere  now,  have  set  their 

breasts 

Against  the  rush  of  thousands,  and  sus- 
tained, 
And  made  the  shock  recoil.— Ay,  man,  free 

man, 
Still  to  be  called  so,  hath  achieved  such 

deeds 
As  Heaven  and  earth  have  marvelled  at ; 

and  souls, . 
Whose  spark  yet  slumbers  with  the  days  to 

come      »  [thus 

Shall  burn  to  hear :  transmitting  brightly 
Freedom  from  race  to  race  1 — Back  I  or 

prepare, 
Amidst  your  hearths,  your  bowers,  your 

very  shrines, 
To  bleed  and  die  in  vain  !— Turn,  follow 

me  1 

Conradin,  Conradin  1 — for  Sicily 
His  spirit  fights  I — Remember  Conradin  I 
'  [They  begin  to  rally  around  him. 
Ay,  this  is  well  I — Now  follow  me,  and 

charge  I 

[The  PROVENCALS  rush  in,  but  are 
repulsed  by  the  SICILIANS. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.—Part  of  the  Field  of  Battle. 
MONTALBA  enters  wounded,  and  supported 
by  RAIMOND,  whose  face  is  concealed  by 
his  helmet. 

Rai.  Here  rest  thee,  warrior. 
Mon.  Rest,  ay,  death  is  rest, 
And  such  will  soon  be  mine. — But  thwta 
fott*. 


276 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 


I  shall  not  die  a  captive.    Brave  Sicilian  ! 
These  lips  are  all  unused  to  soothing  words, 
Or  I  should  bless  the  valour  which  hath  won 
For  my  last  hour  the  proud  free  solitude 
Wherewith  my  soul  would  gird  itself. — Thy 

name? 
Rai.  'Twill  be  no  music  to  thine  ear, 

Montalba. 
Gaze — read  it  thus  ! 

[He  lift;,  the  visor  ofhii  helmet. 
Man.  Raimond  di  Procida  I 
Jtai,  Thou  hast  pursued  me  with  a  bitter 

hate. 
But  fare  thee  welll     Heaven's  peace  be 

with  thy  soul  I 

I  must  away. — One  glorious  effort  more, 
And  this  proud  field  is  won  ! 

[Exit  RAIMOND. 
Man.  Am  I  thus  humbled  ? 
How  my  heart  sinks  within  me  1    But  'tis 

death 

(And  he  can  tame  the  mightiest)  hath  sub- 
dued 

My  towering  nature  thus  1 — Yet  is  he  wel- 
come 1  L  ie  1 
That  youth — 'twas  in  his  pride  he  rescued 
I  was  his  deadliest  foe,  and  thus  he  proved 
His  fearless  scorn.  Ha  I  ha  1  but  he  shall 

fail 

To  melt  me  into  womanish  feebleness. 
There  I  still  baffle  him— the  grave  shall  seal 
My  lips  for  ever — mortal  shall  not  hear 
Montalba  say — "forgive/"  [He  dies. 

(The  scene  closes.) 

SCENE  VI.— Another  part  of  the  Field. 
PHOCIDA.   GOIDO.   And  other  SICILIANS. 

Pro.  The  day  is  ours ;  but  he,  the  brave 

unknown, 
Who  turned  the  tide  of  battle ;  he  whose 

path 
Was  victory — who  hath  seen  him  ? 

ALBERTI  is  brought  in,  wounded  and 
fettered. 

Alb.  Procida! 

Pro.  Be  silent,  traitor  1 — Bear  him  from 

my  sight 
Unto  your  deepest  dungeons. 

Alb.  In  the  grave 

A  nearer  home  awaits  me. — Yet  one  word 
Ere  my  voice  fail — thy  son 

Pro.  Speak,  speak  1 

Alb.  Thy  son 
Knows  not  a  thought  of  guilt.    That  trai- 

t'rous  plot 
Was  mine  alone.  \Ht  is  kd  away. 


Pro.  Attest  it,  earth  and  Heaver.  I 
My  son  is  guiltless  ! — Hear  it,  Sicily  I 
The  blood  of  Procida  is  noble  still.! — 
My  son  1 — He  lives,  he  lives  I — His  voice 

shall  speak 
Forgiveness  to  his  sire ! — His  name  shall 

cast 
Its  brightness  o'er  my  soul  I 

Gvido.  Oh,  day  of  joy  ! 
The  brother  of  my  heart  is  worthy  still 
The  lofty  name  he  bears. 

ANSELMO  enters. 

Pro.  Anselmo,  welcome  1 
In  a  glad  hour  we  meet,  for  know,  my  soar 
Is  guiltless. 

Ans.  And  victorious  !  by  his  arm 
All  hath  been  rescued. 

Pro.  How  I  th"  unknown— 

Ans.  Was  he! 

Thy  noble  Raimond  I  ,By  Vittoria's  hand 
Freed  from  his  bondage  in  that  awful  hour 
When  all  was  flight  and  terror. 

Pro.  Now  my  cup 

Of  joy  too  brightly  mantles  I — Let  me  press 
My  warrior  to  a. father's  heart — and  die  ; 
for  life  hath  nought  beyond ! — Why  comes 

he  not  ? 
Anselmo,  lead  me  to  my  valiant  boy  t 

Ans.  Temper  this  proud  delight. 

Pro.  What  means  that  look  ? 
He  hath  not  fallen  ? 

Ans.  He  lives. 

Pro.  Away,  away ! 

By3  the  wide  city  with  triumphal  pomp 
Prepare  to  greet  her  victor.     Let  this  hour 
Atone  for  all  his  wrongs  ! —          [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VII.— Garden  oj  a  Convent. 

RAIMOND  is  led  in  wounded,  leaning  on 
ATTENDANTS. 

fiai.  Bear  me  to  no  dull  couch,  but  let 

me  die 
In  the  bright  face  of  nature  1 — Lift  my 

helm, 
That  I  may  look  on  heaven. 

First  Attendant  (to  Second  Attendant}. 

Lay  him  to  rest 

On  this  green  sunny  bank,  and  I  will  call 
Some  holy  sister  to  his  aid  ;  but  thou 
Return  unto  the  field,  for  high-bom  men 
There  need  the  peasant's  aid. 

[Exit  SECOND  ATTENDANT. 
(To  RAIMOND.)  Here  gentler  hands 
Shall   tend   thee,   warrior;   for  in  tbesq 
retreats 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO. 


277 


They  dwell,  whose  vows  devote  them  to  the 

care 
Of  all  that  suffer.   May'st  thou  live  to  bless 

them  1       {Exit  FIRST  ATTENDANT. 
Rai,  Thus  have  I  wished  to  die  I — 'Twas 

a  proud  strife  1 
My  father  blessed  th'  unknown  who  rescued 

him, 
(Blessed  him,  alas  1  because  unknown !)  and 

Guido, 

Beside  me  bravely  struggling,  called  aloud, 
"  Noble  Sicilian,   on  1"     Oh  I   had  they 

deemed 
Twas  I  who  led  that  rescue,  they  had 

spurned 
Mine  aid,  though  'twas  deliverance  ;  and 

their  looks 
Had  fallen,  like  blights,  upon  me. — There 

is  one, 
Whose  eye  ne'er  turned  on  mine,  but  its 

blue  light 
Grew  softer,  trembling  through  the  dewy 

mist 
Raised  by  deep  tenderness ! — Ob  might 

the  soul 

Set  in  that  eye  shine  on  me  ere  I  perish  I 
Is't  not  her  voice  ? 

CONSTANCE  enters,  speaking  to  a  NUNi 
who  turns  into  another  path. 

Con.  Oh  I  happy  they,  kind  sister, 
Whom  thus  ye  tend ;  for  it  is  theirs  to  fall 
With  brave  men  side  by  side,  when  the 

roused  heart 
Beats  proudly  to  the  last  1 — There  are  high 

souls 
Whose  hope  was  such  a  death,  and  'tis 

denied  I 

She  approaches  RAIMOND. 

Voung  Warrior,  is  there  aught — thou  here, 

my  Raimond  I 
Thou  here — and  thus ! — Oh  !  is  this  joy  or 

woe? 
Rai.  Joy,  be  it  joy,  my  own,  my  blessed 

love, 
E'en  on  the  grave's  dim  verge  ! — yes  it  is 

joy  I 
My  Constance  I  victors  have  been  crowned, 

ere  now, 
With  the  green  shining  laurel,  when  their 

brows 
Wore  death's  own  impress — and  it  may  be 

thus 
E'en  yet,  with  me  I — They  freed  me,  when 

the  foe 
.  Had  half  prevailed,  and  I  have  proudly 

earned, 


With  my  heart's  dearest  blood,  the  meed 

to  die 
Within  thine  arms. 

Con.  Oh  1  speak  not  thus — to  die ! 
These  wounds  may  yet  be  closed. 

[She  attempts  to  bind  his  wounds. 

Look  on  me,  love  1 
Why,  there  is  more  than  life  in  thy  glad 

mien, 

Tis  full  of  hope  1  and  from  thy  kindled  eye 
Breaks  e'en  unwonted  light,  whose  ardent 

ray 
Seems  born  to  be  immortal  1 

Rai.  'Tis  e'en  so ! 

The  parting  soul  doth  gather  all  her  fires 
Around  her  ;  all  her  glorious  hopes,  and 

dreams, 

And  burning  aspirations,  to  illume 
The  shadowy  dimness  of  th'  untrodden  path 
Which  lies  before  her  ;  and,  encircled  thus, 
Awhile  she  sits  in  dying  eyes,  and  thence 
Sends  forth  her  bright  farewell.  Thy  gentle 

cares 
Are  vain,  and  yet  I  bless  them. 

Con.  Say,  not  vain ; 
The  dying  look  not  thus.    We  shall  not 

part! 
Rai.  I  have  seen  death  ere  now,  and 

known  him  wear 
Full  many  a  changeful  aspect. 

Con.  Oh  I  but  none 
Radiant  as  thine,,  my  warrior  1 — Thou  wilt 

live  I 
Look  round  thee  I — all  is  sunshine — is  not 

this 
A  smiling  world  ? 

Rai.  Ay,  gentlest  love,  a  world 
Of  joyous  beauty  and  magnificence, 
Almost  too  fair  to  leave  1 — Yet  must  we 

tame 
Our  ardent  hearts  to  this  I — Oh,  weep  thou 

not! 

There  is  no  home  for  liberty,  or  love, 
Beneath  these  festal  skies! — Be  not   de- 
ceived ; 

My  way  lies  far  beyond  I — I  shall  be  soon 
That  viewless  thing  which,  with  its  mortal 

weeds 

Casting  off  meaner  passions,  yet,  we  trust, 
Forgets  not  how  to  love ! 

Con.  And  must  this  be? 
Heaven,  thou  art  merciful  1 — Oh  I  bid  oui 

souls 
Depart  together ! 

Rai.  Constance  I  there  !s  strength 
Within  thy  gentle  heart,  which  hath  bset 

proved 
Nobly,  for  me :  Arouse  it  once  again  I 


278 


THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO.  ' 


Thy  grief  unmans  me — and  1  fain  would 

meet 
That  which  approaches,  as  a  brave  man 

yields 

With  proud  submission  to  a  mightier  foe. — 
It  is  upon  me  now  1 

Con.  I  will  be  calm, 

Let  thy  head  rest  upon  my  bosom,  Raimond, 
And  I  will  so  suppress  its  quick  deep  sobs, 
They  shall  but  rock  thee  to  thy  rest.  There  is 
A  world  (ay,  let  us  seek  it  I)  where  no  blight 
Falls  on  the  beautiful  rose  of  youth,  and 

there 
I  shall  be  with  thee  soon  I 

PROCIDA  and  ANSELMO  enter.    PROCIDA 

on  seeing  RAIMOND  starts  back. 

Am.  Lift  up  thy  head, 
Brave  youth,  exultingly  1  forlol  thine  hour 
Of  glory  comes  1 — Oh  1  doth  it  come  too 

late? 

E'en  now  the  false  Albert!  hath  confessed 
That  guilty  plot,,  for  which    thy  life  was 

doomed 
To  be  th'  atonement. 

Rai.  'Tis  enough  I  Rejoice, 
Rejoice,  my  Constance  !  for  I  leave  a  name 
O'er  which  thou  may'st  weep  proudly  ! 

f,f/e  sinks  back. 
To"'tby  breast 

Fold  me  yet  closer,  for  an  icy  dart 
Hath  touched  my  veins. 

Con.  And  must  thou  leave  me,  Raimond? 
Alas  1  thine  eye  grows  dim—  4.ts  wandering 

glance 
Is  full  of  dreams. 

Rai.  Haste,  haste,  and  tell  my  father 
1  was  no  traitor  I 
Pro.  (rushing  forward).  To  that  father's 

heart 

Return,  forgiving  all  thy  wrongs,  return  ! 
Speak  to  me,  Raimond  I — Thou  wert  ever 
kind,  [past 

And  brave,  and  gentle  1  Say  that  all  the 
Shall  be  forgiven  I  That  word  from  none 

but  thee 

My  lips  e'er  asked. — Speak  to  me  once,  my 

boy,  [thus  ? 

My  pride,  my  hope  ! — And  is  it  with  thee 

Look  on  me  yet  I — Oh  1  must  this  woe  be 

borne  ? 
Rai.  Off  with  this  weight  of  chains  I  it 

is  not  meet 

For  a  crowned ,  conqueror  !  —  Hark,    the 
trumpet's  voice  1 

[A  sound  of  triumphant  music  it 
heard,  gradually  approaching. 


I  Is  't  not  a  thrilling  call?— What  drowsy 

spell 

Benumbs  me   thus? — Hence!   I  am  free 

again  1  1 

Now  swell  your  festal  strains,  the  field  is 

won  I  \ 

Sing  me  to  glorious  dreams.          [He  diet. 

A  ns.  The  strife  is  past. 
There  fled  a  noble  spirit  1 

Con.  Hush  1  he  sleeps— 
Disturb  him  not  1 
•  Ans.  Alas  !  this  is  no  sleep 
From  which  the  eye  doth  radiantly  unclose : 
Bow  down  thy  soul,  for  earthly  hope  is  o'er  I 

(  The  music  continues  approaching.    GUIDO 
enters,  -with  CITIZENS  and  SOLDIERS.)    , 

Guido.  The  shrines  are  decked,  the  fes- 
tive torches  blaze — 

Where  is  our  brave  deliverer? — We  are 
come 

To  crown  Palermo's  victor  I 
Ans.  Ye  come  late. 

The  voice  of  human  praise  doth  send  no 
echo 

Into  the  world  of  spirits. 

[The  music  ceases. 
Pro.  (after  a  pause].  Is  this  dust 

I  look  on— Raimond  1 — 'tis  but  sleep — a 
smile 

On  his  pale  cheek  sits  proudly.    Raimond. 
wake  1 

Oh,  God  !  and  this  was  his  triumphant  dayl 

My  son,  my  injured  son  1 

Con.  (starting).  Art  thou  bis  father.? 

I  know  thee  now. — Hence,  with  thy  dark 
stern  eye, 

And  thy  cold  heart  I — Thou  canst  not  wake 
him  now  \ 

Away  I  he  will  not  answer  but  to  me, 

For  none  like  me  hath  loved  him  I    He  is 
mine ! 

Ye  shall  not  rend  him  from  me. 
Pro.  Oh  I  he  knew 

Thy  love,   poor  maid  I-   Shrink  from   me 
now  no  more  1 

He  knew  thy  heart — but  who  shall  tell  him 
now. 

The  depth,  th'  intenseness,  and  the  agony, 

Of   my    suppressed    affection  ?  —  I    have 
learned 

All  his  high  worth  in  time — to  deck  fair- 
grave  1 

Is  .here  not  power  in  the  strong  spirit's 
woe 

To  force  an  answer  from  the  viewless  world 

Of  the  departed  ? — Raimond  1— speak  I  for- 
give 1 


THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY. 


279 


Rafmond  !  my  victor,  my  deliverer,  hear  I 
Why,  what  a  world  is  this  1— Truth  ever 

bursts 
On  the  dark   soul  too  late :   and  glory 

crowns 
Th'  unconscious  dead  1  And  an  hour  comes 

to  break 


The  mightiest  hearts  1— My  son !  my  son  ! 

is  this 
A  day  of  triumph  ? — Ay,  for  thee  alone  I 

[He  throws  himself  upon  the  body  of 
RAIMOND. 

{Curtain  falls. 


1826. 

THE    FOREST    SANCTUARY. 

"  Ihr  Platze  aller  meiner  stillen  freuden 
Euch  lass'  ich  Hater  mir  auf  immerdar.l 

*  *  *  * 

So  ist  des  Geistes  ruf  an  mJch  ergangen, 
Mich  treibt  nicht  cities,  Irdisches  verlangen." 

Die  Jung/ran  van  Orleans. 

"  Long  time  against  oppression  have  I  fought, 
And  for  the  native  liberty  of  faith 
Have  bled  and  suffered  bonds." — Remorse,  a  Tragtdy. 

THE  following  Poem  is  intended  to  describe  the  mental  conflicts  as  well  as  outward 
sufferings,  of  a  Spaniard,  who,  flying  from  the  religious  persecutions  of  his  own  country, 
In  the  sixteenth  century,  takes  refuge,  with  his  child,  in  a  North  American  forest.  The 
story  is  supposed  to  be  related  by  himself,  amidst  the  wilderness  which  has  afforded  him 
an  asylum. 

E'en  thus  they  haunt  me  with  sweet 
sounds,  till  worn  [say — 

By  quenchless  longings,  to  my  soul  I 
Oh  1  for  the  dove's  swift  wings,  that  I  might 
flee  away,- 


I. 

THE  Toices  of  my  home !— I  hear  them 

still  I 
They  have  been  with  me  through  the 

dreamy  night — 
The  blessed  household  voices,  wont  to  fill 
My  heart's  clear  depths  with  unalloyed 

delight  I 
I  hear  them  still,  unchanged, — though 

some  from  earth  [mirth — 

Are   music   parted,;  and   the  tones    of 
Wild,  silvery  tones,  that  rang  through 

days  more  bright  I  [come, 

Have  died  in  others — yet  to  me  they 

Singing  of  boyhood  back — the  voices  of  my 

hornet 

H. 

They  call  me  through  this  hush  of  woods, 

reposing 

In  the  grey  stillness  of  the  summer  morn ; 
They  wander  by  when  heavy  flowers  are 

closing, 
And  thoughts  grow  deep,  and  winds  an'" 

stars  are  born  ;  [burst 

Even  as  a  fount's  remembered  gushings 
On  the  parched  traveller  in  his  hour  of 

thirst. 


III. 

And  find  mine  ark! — yet  whither?— I 

must  bear 

A  yearning  heart  within  me  to  the  grave. 
I  am  of  those  o'er  whom  a  breath  of  air — 
Just  darkening  in  its  course  the  lake's 

bright  wave,  [hath  power 

And  sighing  through  the  feathery  canes — 
To  call  up  shadows,  in  the  silent  hour, 
From  the  dim  past,  as  from  a  wizard's 

cave !—  [spread, 

So  must  it  be  I — These  skies  above  me 

Are  they  my  own  soft  skies  ? — Ye  rest  not 

here,  my  dead !  . 

IV. 

Ye  far  amidst  the  southern  flowers,  lie 
sleeping,  [clear, 

Your  graves  all  smiling  in  the  sunshine 
Save  one  1 — a  blue,  lone,  distant  main  is 
sweeping  [here  I—- 

High o'er  one  gentle  Tiead— ye  rest  nol 


280 


THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY, 


Tis  not  the  olive,  with  a  whisper  sway- 
ing, [playing 

Not    thy  low   ripplings,    glassy  water, 

Through  my  own  chestnut  groves,  which 
fill  mine  ear  ;  [dwell, 

But  the  faint  echoes  in  my  breast  that 
And  for  their  birth-place  moan,  as  moans 
the  ocean-shell. 

v. 

Peace  I — I  will  dash  these  fond  regrets  to 

earth,  [rain 

Even  as  an  eagle  shakes  the  cumbering 
From  his  strong  pinion.  Thou  that  gav'st 

me  birth,  [Spain  1 

And  lineage,  and  once  home, — my  native 
My  own  bright  land — my  father's  land — 

my  child's  I 
What  hath  thy  son  brought  from  thee  to 

the  wilds? — 
He  hath  Brought  marks  of  torture  and 

the  chain,  [breeze ; 

Traces  of  things  which   pass  not  as  a 

A  blighted  name,  dark  thoughts,  wrath, 

woe, — thy  gifts  are  these. 

VI. 

A  blighted  name  1 — I  hear  the  winds  of 

morn —  [shiver 

Their  sounds  are  not  of  this  I — I  hear  the 
Of.  the  green  reeds,  and  all  the  rustlings, 

borne 
From  the  high  forest,  when  the  light 

leaves  quiver :  [waving, 

Their  sounds  are  not  of  this ! — the  cedars, 
Lend  it  no  tone :  His  wide  savannahs 

laving, 

It  is  not  murmured  by  the  joyous  river  I 
What  part  hath  mortal  name,  wnere  God 

alone 
Speaks  to  the  mighty  waste,  and  through 

its  heart  is  known  ? , 

VTT. 

Is  it  not  much  that  i  may  worship  Him, 
With  nought  my  spirit's  breathings  to 
control,  [dim, 

And  feel  His  presence  in  the  vast,  and 
And  whispery  woods,  where  dying  thun- 
ders roll  [rejoice 
From  the  far  cataracts? — Shaft  I  not 
That  I  have  learned  at  last  to  know  His 
voice                                            [ing  soul 
From  man's  ? — I  will  rejoice  ! — my  soar- 
Now  hath  redeemed  her  birthright  of  the 
day,                              [unfettered  way  1 
And  won,  through  clouds,  to  Him,  her  own 


vra. 

And  thou,  my  boy  !  that  silent  at  my  knee 
Dost  lift  to  mine  thy  soft,  dark,  earnest 

eyes,  [see 

Filled  with  the  love  of  childhood,  which  I 
Pure  through  its  depths,  a  thing  without 

disguise  ; 
Thou  that  hast  breathed  in  slumber  on 

my  breast,  , 

When  I  have  checked  its  throbs  to  give 

thee  rest,  > 

Mine  own  I  whose  young  thoughts  fresh 

before  me  rise  I  [prayer, 

Is  it  not  much  that  I  may  guide  thy- 

And  circle  thy  glad  soul  with  free  and 

healthful  air? 


Why  should  I  weep  on  thy  bright  head, 

my  boy  ? 
Within  thy  fathers'  halls  thou  wilt  not 

dwell,  .  J 

Nor  lift  their  banner,  with  a  warrior's  joy, 
Amidst  the  sons  of  mountain  chiefs,  who 

fell 
For  Spain  of  old.—  Yet  what  if  rolling 

waves 
Have  borne  us  far  from  our  ancestral 

graves? 

Thou  shall  not  feel  thy  burstingheart  rebel 
As  mine  hath  done  ;  nor  bear  what  I 

have  borne, 
Casting  in  falsehood's  mould  th'  indignant 

brow  of  scorn. 

x. 

This  shall  not  be  thy  lot,  my  blessed 

child  I  [vain  — 

I  have  not  sorrowed,  straggled,  lived  in 
Hear  me  I  magnificent  and  ancient  wild  ; 
And  mighty  rivers,  ye  that  meet  the  main, 
As  deep  meets  deep  ;  and  forests,  whose 

dim  shade  | 

The  flood's  voice,   and  the  wind's,  by 

swells  pervade  ;  [plain, 

Hear  me  1  —  'tis  well  to  die,  and  not  corn- 
Yet  there  are  hours  when  .the  charged 

heart  must  speak,  [break  I 

Even  in  the  desert's  ear  to  pour  itself,  or 


I  see  an  oak  before  me,  it  hath  been 
The  crowned  one  of  the  woods ;    and 

might  have  flung  .  [green, 

Its  hundred  arms  to  heaven,  still  freshly 
But  a  wild  vine  around  the  stem  hatJh 

clung, 


THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY. 


281 


From  branch  to  branch  close  wreaths  of 
bondage  throwing,  [bowing, 

Till  the  proud  tree,  before  no  tempest 
Hath  shrunk  and  died,  those  serpent- 
folds  among. 

Alas ! — alas  ! — what  is  it  that  I  see  ? 
An  image  of  man's  mind,  land  of  my  sires, 
with  thee  I 

XII. 

Yet  art  thou  lovely ! — Song  is  on  thy 
hills — 

O  sweet  and  mournful  melodies  of  Spain, 

That   lulled    my   boyhood,    how   your 
memory  thrills  [pain  ! — 

The  exile's  heart  with  sudden-wakening 

Your  sounds  are  on  the  rocks : — That  I 
might  hear 

Once  more  the  music   of  the   moun- 
taineer I — 

And  from  the  sunny  vales  the  shepherd's 
strain 

Floats  out,  and  fills  the  solitary  place 
With  the  old  tuneful  names  of  Spain's 
heroic  race. 

xm. 

But  there  was  silence  one  bright,  golden 

day, 
Through  my  own  pine-hung  mountains. 

Clear,  yet  lone, 

In  the  rich  autumn  light  the  vineyards  lay, 
And  from  the  fields  the  peasant's  voice 

was  gone ; 
And  the  red  grapes  untrodden  strewed 

the  ground, 
And  the  free  flocks  untended  roamed 

around : 
Where  was  the  pastor  ? — where  the  pipe's 

wild  tone?  [among, 

Music  and  mirth  were  hushed  the  hills 

While  to  the  city's   gates   each   hamlet 

poured  its  throng. 

XIV. 

Silence  upon  the  mountains  1 — But  within 
The  city's  gates  a  rush — a  press— a  swell 
Of  multitudes  their  torrent  way  to  win ; 
And  heavy  boomings  of  a  dull,  deep  bell, 
A  dead  pause  following  each — like  that 

which  parts  [hearts 

The  dash  of  billows,  -holding  breathless 
Fast  in  the  hush  of  fear — knell  after 

knell; 
And  sounds  of  thickening  steps,  like 

thunder-rain, 
That  plashes  on  the  toot  of  some  vast 

echoing  fane  I 


xv, 

What  pageant's  hour  approached  ? — The 

sullen  gate  [thrown 

Of  a  strong  ancient  prison-house  was 
Back  to  the  day.  And  who,  in  mournful 

state,  [stone  ? 

Came  forth,  led  slowly  o'er  its  threshold- 
They  that  had  learned,  in  cells  of  secret 

gloom,  [whom 

How  sunshine  is  forgotten  ! — They  to 
The  very  features  of  mankind  were  grown' 
Things  that  bewildered  1 — O'er  their 

dazzled  sight, 
They  lifted  their  wan  hands,  and  cowered 

before  the  light  1 

XVI. 

To  this  man  brings  his  brother  I— Some 

were  there, 

Who  with  their  desolation  had  entwined 
Fierce  strength,  and  girt  the  sternness  of 

despair  [riors  bind 

Fast  round  their  bosoms,  even  as  war- 
The  breastplate  on  for  fight :  but  brow 

and  cheek  [speak  i 

Seemed  theirs  a  torturing  panoply  to 
And  there  were  some,  from  whom  the 

very  mind 
Had  been  wrung  out :  they  smiled— oh  ! 

startling  smile 
Whence  man's  high  soul  is  fled  1 — Where 

doth  it  sleep  the  while  ? 

XVII. 

But  onward  moved  the  melancholy  train, 
For  their  false  creeds  in  fiery  pangs  to  die. 
This  was  the  solemn  sacrifice  of  Spain — 
Heaven's  offering  from  the  land  of  chi- 
valry I 
Through'  thousands,  thousands  of  their 

race  they  moved — 

Oh  I  how  unlike  all  others  I— thebeloved, 

The   free,    the   proud, '  the   beautiful  I 

whose  eye  [breath 

Grew  fixed  before  them,  while  a  people's 

Was  hushed,  and  its  one  soul  bound  in  the 

thought  of  death  I 

XVIII. 

It  might  be  that  amidst  the  countless 

throng, 
There  swelled  some  heart,  with  Pity's 

weight  oppressed,  [strong ; 

For  the  wide  stream  of  human  love  is 
And  woman,  oh  whose  fond  and  faithful 

breast 


282 


i     /     'THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY. 


Childhood  is  reared,  and  at  whose  knee 

the  sigh 
Of  its  first  prayer  is  breathed,  she,  too, 

was  nigh, —  [blessed, 

But  life  is  dear,  and  the  free  footstep 
And  home  a  sunny  place,  where  each 

may  fill 
Some   eye  with    glistening   smiles, — and 

therefore  all  were  still — 

XIX. 

All  still — youth,  courage,  strength  1 — a 

winter  laid, 

A  chain  of  palsy,  cast  on  might  and  mind  I 
Still,  as  at  noon  a  Southern  forest's  shade, 
They  stood,  those  breathless  masses  of 

mankind ; 

Still,  as  a  frozen  torrent  1 — but  the  wave 
Soon  leaps  to  foaming  freedom — they, 
the  brave,  [assigned 

Endured — they  saw  the  martyr's  place 
In  the  red  flames — whence  is  the  wither- 
ing spell 

That  numbs  each  human  pulse  ? — they  saw, 
and  thought  it  well. 


And  I,  too,  thought  it  well !    That  very 

mom  ,     [clung 

From  a  far  land  I  came,  yet  round  me 
The  spirit  of  my  own.  No  hand  had  torn 
With  a  strong  grasp  away  the  veil  which 

hung 
Between  mine  eyes  and  truth.     I  gazed, 

I  saw, 

Dimly,  as  through  a  glass.  In  silent  awe 
I  watched  the  fearful  rites  ;  and  if  there 

sprung 

One  rebel  feeling  from  its  deep  founts  up, 
Shuddering,  I  flung  it  back,  as  guilt's  own 

poison-cup. 

XXI. 

But  I  was  wakened  as  the  dreamers 
waken  [of  dre-ad 

Whom  the  shrill  trumpet  and  the  shriek 

Rouse  up  at  midnight,  when  their  walls 
are  taken,  [shed 

And  they  must  battle  till  their  blood  is 

On  their  own  threshold-floor.  A  path 
for  light 

Through  my  torn  breast  was  shattered 
by  the  might 

Of  the  swift  thunder-stroke — and  Free- 
dom's tread  [vain, 

Came  in  through  ruins,  late,  yet  not  in 
Making  the  blighted  place  all  green  with 
life  again. 


XXII. 

Still  darkly,  slowly,  as  a  sullen  mass 
Of  cloud,  o'ersweeping,  without  wind, 

the  sky, 

Dream-like  I  saw  the  sad  precession  pass, 
And  marked  its  victims  with  a  tearless 

eye.  [wrought 

They  moved  before  me  but  as  pictures, 
Each  to  reveal  some  secret  of  man's 

thought, 

On  the  sharp  edge  of  sad  mortality, 
Till  in  his  place  came  one— oh  !  could  it 

be? 
My  friend,  my  heart's  first  friend  1— and  did 

I  gaze  on  thee  ? 

XXIII. 

On  thee  !  with  whom  in  boyhood  I  had 

played,  [streams ; 

At  the  grape-gatherings,  by  my  native 
And  to  whose  eye  my  youthful  soul  had 

laid 
Bare,  as  to  Heaven's,  its  glowing  world 

of  dreams  ;  [stood, 

And  by  whose  side  'midst  warriors  I  had 
And  in  whose  helm  was  brought — oh  ! 

earned  with  blood ; 
The  fresh  wave  to  my  lips,  when  tropic 

beams  [had  passed, 

Smote  on  my  fevered  brow  ! — Ay,  years 

Severing  our  paths,   brave   friend ! — and 

thus  we  met  at  last  1 


I  see  it  still — the  lofty  mien  thou  borest — 
On  thy  pale  forehead  sat  a  sense  of 
power  1  [wprest, 

The  very  look  that  once  thou  brightly 
Cheering  me  onward  through  a  fearful 
hour,  [spear, 

When  we  were  girt  by  Indian  bow  and 
'Midst  the  white  Andes — even  as  moun- 
tain deer,  [javelin-shower 
Hemmed  in  our  camp — but  through  the 
V/e  rent  our  way,  a  tempest  of  despair  I — 
And  thou — hadst  thou  but  died  with  thy 
true  brethren  there  I 

XXV. 

I  call  the  fond  wish  back — for  thou  hast 
perished  [known 

More  nobly    far,    my   Alvar !—  making 

The  might  of  truth ;  and  be  thy  memory 
cherished 

With  theirs,  the  thousands,  that  around 
her 'throne 


THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY. 


283 


Have  poured  their  lives  out  smfling,  in 

that  doom 

Finding  a  triumph,  if  denied  a  tomb  ! — 
Ay,  with  their  ashes  hath  the  wind  been 

sown, 
And  with  the  wind  their  spirit  shall  be 

spread, 
Filling  man's  heart  and  home  with  records 

of  the  dead. 

xxvi. 

Thou  Searcher  of  the  Soul !  in.  whose 
dread  sight  [skies, 

Not  the  bold  guilt  alone,  that  mocks  the 

But  the  scarce-owned,  unwhispered 
thought  of  night, 

As  a  thing  written  with  the  sunbeam  lies  ; 

Thou  know'st — whose  eye  through  shade 
and  depth  can  see, 

That  this  man's  crime  was  but  to  worship 
thee, 

Like  those  that  made  their  hearts  thy 
sacrifice,  [side, 

The  called  of  yore  ,  wont  by  the  Saviour's 
On  the  dim  Olive-mount  to  pray  at  even- 
tide. 

XXVII. 

For  the  strong  spirit  will  at  times  awake, 
Piercing  the  mists  that  wrap  her  clay- 
abode';  [take 
And,  born  of  thee,  she  may  not  always 
Earth's  accents  for  the  oracles  of  God  ; 
And  even  for  this — O  dust,  whose  mask 
is  power  !                                   [hour  I 
Reed,  that  wouldst  be  a  scourge  thy  little 
Spark,  whereon  yet  the  mighty  hath  not 

trod, 
And  therefore  thou  destroyest  I — where 

were  flown 

Our  hope,  if  man  were  left  to  man's  decree 
alone? 

XXVlll. 

But  this  I  felt  not  yet.     I  could  but  gaze 
On  •  him/  -my  friend  ;  whDe  that  swift 

moment  threw    .  [days, 

A  sudden  freshness  back  on  vanished 
'Like  water-drops  on  some  dim  picture's 

hue ; 
Calling  the  proud  time  up,  when  first  I 

stood 
Where  banners  floated,  and  my  heart's 

quick  blood 

Sprang  to  a  torrent  as  the  clarion  blew, 
And  he — his  sword  was  like  a  brother's 

worn, 
That  watches  through  the  field  bis  mother's 

youngest  born. 


XXIX. 

But  a  lance  met  me  in  that  day's  career, — 
Senseless  I  lay  amidst  th'  o'ersweeping 

fight,  [clear, 

Wakening  at  last — how  full,  how  strangely 
That  scene  on  memory   flashed! — the 

shivery  light, 
Moonlight,  on  broken  shields — the  plain 

of  slaughter, 
The  fountain-side — the  low  sweet  sound 

of  water —  [night 

And  Alvar  bending  o'er  me — from  the 
Covering  me  with  his  mantle  1 — all  the 

past 
Flowed  back  —  my  soul's  far  chords  all 

answered  to  the  blast. 

XXX. 

Till,  in  that  rush  of  visions,  I  became 
As  one  that  by  the  bands  of  slumber 

wound,  [frame, 

Lies  with  a  powerless,  but  all-thrilling 
Intense  in  consciousness  of  sight  and 

sound,  [brings 

Yet  buried  in  a  wildering  dream  which 
Loved  faces  round  him,  girt  with  fearful 

things  > 
Troubled  even  thus  I  stood,  but  chained 

and  bound 

On  that  familiar  form  mine  eye  to  keep : — 
Alas  I  I  might  not  fall  upon  his  neck  and 

weepl 

XXXI. 

He  passed   me  —  and   what   next? — I 

looked  on  two,  [place, 

Following  his  footsteps  to  the  same  dread 
For  the  same  guilt — his  sisters ! — Well  I 

knew 
The  beauty  on  those  brows,  though  each 

young  face 
Was  changed— so  deeply  changed  ! — a 

dungeon's  air  [bear; 

Is  hard  for  loved  and  lovely  things  to 
And  ye,  O  daughters  of  a  lofty  race, 
Queen-like  Theresa  I    radiant    Inez  1 — 

flowers 
•=0  cherished  !  were  ye  then  but  reared  for 

those  dark  hours? 

xxxn. 

A  mournful  home,  young  sisters !  had  ye 

left,  [the  wall, 

With  your  lutes  hanging  hushed  upon 

And  silence  round  the  aged  man,  bereft 

Of  each  glad  voice,  once  answering  to 

hiscalL 


THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY. 


Alas,  that  lonely  father !  doomed  to  pine 
For  sounds  departed!  n  his  life's  decline, 
And  "midst  the  shadowing  banners  of  his 

hall,  [name 

With  his  white  hair  to  sit,  and  deem  the 

ft.  hundred  chiefs  had  borne,  cast  down  by 

you  to  shame  1 

xxxm. 

And  woe  for  you,  'midst  looks  and  words 

of  love,  [long ! 

And  gentle  hearts  and  faces,  nursed  so 
How  had  I  seen  you  in  your  beauty  move, 
Wearing  the  wreath,  and  listening  to  the 

song  I— 
Yet  sat,   even  then,  what   seemed  the 

crowd  to  shun, 
Half  veiled  upon  the  clear  pale  brow  of 

one, 
And  deeper  thoughts  than  oft  to  youth 

belong, 
Thoughts,   such  as  wake  to  evening's 

whispery  sway, 
Within  the  drooping  shade  of  her  sweet 

eyelids  lay. 

XXXIV. 

And  if  she  mingled  with  the  festive  train, 
It  was  but  as  some  melancholy  star 
Beholds  the  dance  of  shepherds  on  the 

plain, 

In  its  bright  stillness  present,  though  afar. 
Yet  would  she  smile — and  that,  too,  hath 

its  smile — 
Circled  with  joy  which  reached  her  not 

the  while, 

And  bearing  a  lone  spirit,  not  at  war 
With  earthly  things,  but  o'er  their  form 

and  hue  [true. 

Shedding  too  clear  a  light,  too  sorrowfully 


But  the  dark  hours  wring  forth  the  hidden 

might, 

Which  hath  lain  bedded  in  the  silent  soul, 
A  treasure  all  undreamt  of ; — as  the  night 
Calls  out  the  harmonies  of  streams  that 

roll 
Unheard  by  day.     It  seemed  as  if  her 

breast 

Had  hoarded  energies,    till    then  sup- 
pressed 
Almost  with  pain,   and  bursting  from 

control, 
And  finding  first  that  hour  their  pathway 

free  :— 
Could  a  rose  brave  the  storm,  such  might 

her  emblem  be  I 


For  the  soft  gloom  whose  shadow  still 

had  hung  [worn, 

On  her  fair  brow  beneath  its  garlands 
Was  fled  I  and  fire,  like  prophecy's,  had 

sprung  [scorn — 

Clear  to  her  kindled  eye.     It  might  be 
Pride — sense   of  wrong — ay,    the   frail 

heart  is  bound  [round, 

By  these  at  times,  even  as  with  adamant 
Kept  so  from  breaking  I — yet  not  tAus 

upborne 
She    moved,    though    some   sustaining 

passion's  wave  [brave ! 

Lifted  her  fervent  soul — a  sister  for  the 


And  yet,  alas  I  to  see  the  strength  which 

clings  [ful  sight, 

Round  woman  in  such  hours  ! — a  mourn- 
Though  lovely  I — an  o'erflowing  of  the 

springs,  [bright ! 

The  full  springs  of  affection,  deep  as 
And  she,  because  her  life  is  ever  twined 
With  other  lives,  and  by  no  stormy  wind 
May  thence  be  shaken,  and  because  the 

light 

Of  tenderness  is-round  her,  and  her  eye 
Doth  weep  such  passionate  tears — therefore 

she  thus  can  die. 

xxxvm. 

Therefore  didst  thou,  through  that  heart- 
shaking  scene,  [aside 
As  through  a  triumph  move  ;  and  cast 
Thine  own  sweet  thoughtfulness  for  vic- 
tory's mien, 

O  faithful  sister  1  cheering  thus  the  guide, 
And  friend,  and  brother  of  thy  sainted 
youth,  [truth, 

Whose  hand  had  led  thee  to  the  source  o 
Where  thy  glad  soul  from  earth  was 

purified  ; 
Nor  wouldst  thou,  following  him  through 

all  the  past, 

That  he  should  see  thy  step  grow  tremulous 
at  last. 

XXXIX. 

For  thon  hadst  made  no  deeper  love  a, 

guest 
'Midst thyyoung spirit's  dreams,  than  that 

which  grows  [breast, 

Between  the  nurtured  of  the  same  fond 
The  sheltered  of  one  roof :  and  thus  it 

rose 


THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY. 


285 


Twined  in  with  life.— How  is  it,  that  the 

hours 
Of  the  same  sport,  the  gathering  early 

flowers  [pose, 

Round  the  same  tree,  the  sharing  one  re- 
And  mingling  one  first  prayer  in  murmurs 

soft, 
From  the  heart's  memory  fade,   in    this 

world's  breath,  so  oft? 

XL. 

But  thee  that  breath  had  touched  not ; 

thee,  nor  him, 
The  true  in  all  things  found  !— and  thou 

wert  blest 
Even  then,  that  no  remembered  change 

could  dim 

The  perfect  image  of  affection,  pressed 
Like  armour  to  thy  bosom  I— thou  hadst 

kept  [wept, 

Watch  by  that  brother's  couch  of  pain,  and 
Thy  sweet  face  covering  with  thy  robe, 

when  rest 
Fled  from  the  sufferer ;  thou  hadst  bound 

his  faith 
Unto  thy  soul ; — one  light,  one  hope  ye 

chose— one  death. 

XLI. 

So  didst  thou  pass  on  brightly  !— but  for 

her,  [spoken  !— 

Next  in  that  path,  how  may  her  doom  be 
All-merciful  1  to  think  that  such  things 

were,  [unbroken  1 

And  are,  and  seen  by  men  with  hearts 
To  think  of  that  fair  girl,  whose  path  had 

been  [scene ! 

So  strewed  with  rose-leaves,  all  one  fairy 
And  whose  quick  glance  came  ever  as  a 

token 
Of  hope  to  drooping  thought,  and  her 

glad  voice 
As  a  free  bird's  in  spring,  that  makes  the 

woods  rejoice. 


And  she  to  die  !— she  loved  the  laughing 

earth  [flowers  ! — 

With  such  deep  joy  in  its  fresh  leaves  and 
Was  not  her  smile  even,  as  the  sudden 

birth  [showers  ? 

Of  a  young  rainbow,  colouring  vernal 
Yes  I  but  to  meet  her  fawn-like  step,  to 

hear 

The  gushes  of  wild  song,  so  silvery  clear. 
Which,  "oft  unconsciously  in    happier 

hours 


Flowed  from  her  lips,  was  to  forget  the 

sway 

Of  Time  and  death  below,— blight,  shadow, 
dull  decay. 

XLIII. 

Could  this  change  be? — the  hour,  Jthe 

scene,  where  last  [mind  : — 

I  saw  that  form,  came  floating  o'er  my 

A  golden  vintage  eve ; — the  heats  were 

passed, 

And,  in  the  freshness  of  the  fanning  wind, 
Her  father  sat,  where  gleamed  the  first 

faint  star 

Through  the  lime-boughs  ;  and  with  her 
light  guitar,  [reclined, 

She,  on   the    greensward,    at  his  feet 
In  his  calm  face  laughed  up  ;  spme  shep- 
herd-lay 

Singing,  as  childhood  sings  on  the  lone 
hills  at  play. 

XLIV. 

And  now — O  God  ! — the  bitter  fear  of 
death,  [dread, 

The  sore  amaze,  the  faint  o'ershadowing 

Had  grasped  her !— panting  in  her  quick- 
drawn  breath, 

And  in  her  white  lips  quivering ; — on- 
ward led,  [eyes, 

She  looked  up  with  her  dim  bewildered 

And  there  smiled  out  her  own  soft  bril- 
liant .skies, 
.    Far  in  their  sultry,  southern  azure  spread, 

Glowing  with  joy,  but  silent  1 — still  they 

smiled, 

Yet  sent  down  no  reprieve  for  earth's  poor 
trembling  child. 

XLV. 

Alas  1  that  earth  had  all  too  strong  a 

hold^  [bloom 

Too  fast,  sweet  Inez !  on  thy  heart,  whose 
Was  give%  to  early  love,  nor  knew  how 

cold  [with  whom, 

The  hours  which  follow.  There  was  one, 
Young  as  thou  wert,  and  gentle,  and 

untried,  [have  died  ; 

Thou  might'st,  perchance,  unshrinkingly 
But  he  was  far  away ; — and  with  thy 

doom  [dear, 

Thus  gathering,   life  grew  so  .intensely 

That  all  the  slight  frame  shook  with  its  cold 

mortal  fear  1 

XLVl. 

No  aid  ! — ihou!  too  didst  pass  1 — and  aD 

h&  \  passed,  [strong  I 

The  tearful— •and  &e  desperate— «n<J  the 


THE  FOREST  SANCTUAJtY. 


Some  like  the  bark  that  rushes  with  the 

blast, 

Some  like  the  leaf  swept  shiveringly  along, 
And  some  ss  mei  that  have  but  one  more 

field  [shield- 

To  fight,  and  then  may  slumber  on  their 
Therefore  they  arm  in  hope.  But  now 

the  throng  [tide, 

Rolled  on,  and  bore  me  with  their  living 

Even  as  a  bark  wherein  is  left  no  power  to 

guide. 

XLVU. 

Wave  swept  on  wave.    We  reached  a 

stately  square,  [high, 

Decked  for  the  rites.  An  altar  stood  on 
And  gorgeous,  in  the  midst :  a  place  for 

prayer,  [supply 

And  praise,  arid  offering.  Could  the  eartn 
No  fruits,  no  flowers  for  sacrifice,  of  all 
Which  on  her  sunny  lap  unheeded  fall  ? 
No  fair  young  firstling  of  the  flock  to  die, 
As  when  before  their  God  the  Patriarchs 

stood  ?—• 
Look  down  t  man  brings  thee,  Heaven !  his 

brother's  guiltless  blood  I 

XLVIII. 

Hear  its  voice,  hear  I— a  cry  ^oes  up  to 

thee  [judgment  known 

From  the  stained  sod ;  make  thou  thy 
On  him,  the  shedder  1 — let  his  portion  be 
The  fear  that  walks  at  midnight — give 

the  moan  [say 

In  the  wind  haunting  him  a  power  to 
"  Where  is  thy  brother?" — and  the  stars 

a  ray 

To  search  and  shakehis  spirit,  when  alone, 
With  the  dread  splendour  of  their 

burning  eyes ! —  [sacrifice  ! 

So  shall  earth  own  Thy  will — mercy,  not 

XL1X. 

Sounds  of  triumphant  praise  t — the  mass 
was  sung —  •        [such  strains  t 

Voices  that  die  not  might  have  poured 
Through  Salem 's  towers  might  that  proud 
chant  have  rung  [plains, 

When  the  Most  High,  on  Syria's  palmy 
Had  quelled  her  foes  1 — so  full  it  swept, 
a  sea  [free  !— 

Of  loud   waves    jubilant,    and  rolling 
Oft  when  the  wind,  as  through  resound- 
ing fanes,  [power, 
.    Hath  filled  the  choral  forests  with  its 
Some  deep  tone  brings  me  back  the  music 
«f  that  hour. 


It  died  away ;-  the  incense-cloud  wa» 

driven 
Before  the  breeze — the  words  of  doom 

were  said  ; 
And  the   sua   faded    mournfully    from 

Z!eaven : — 

He  fadeu  mournfully  !  and  dimly  red, 
Parting  in  clouds  from  those  that  looked 

their  last, 
And  sighed — "  Farewell,  thou  Sun  1"— 

Eve  glowed  and  passed — 
Night — midnight  and  the  moon — came 

forth  and  shed 
Sleep,  even  as  dew,  onglen.wood,  peopled 

spot — 
Save  one— a  place  of  death— and  there  men 

slumbered  not. 

LI. 

'Twas  not  within  the  city— but  In  sight 
Of  the   snow-crowned    sierras,     freely 

sweeping, 

With  many  an  eagle's  eyrie  on  the-height, 
And  hunter's  cabin, by  the  torrent  peeping 
Far  off:  and  vales  between,  and  vine* 

yards  lay,  [way, 

With  sound  and  gleam  of  waters  on  theit 
And  chestnut  woods,  that  gut  the  happy 

sleeping  [sky 

In  many  a  peasant-home ! — the  midnight 

Brought  softly  that  rich  world  round  those 

who  came  to  die. 


The   darkly-glorious    midnight   sky    of 

Spain, 
Burning   with  stars  I  —  What  had  the 

torches'  glare 

To  do  beneath  that  Temple,  and  profane 
Its  holy  radiance? — by  their  wavering 

flare, 

I  saw  beside  the  pyres — I  see  thee  now, 
O  bright  Theresa  I  with  thy  lifted  brow. 
And  thy  clasped  hands,  and  dark  eyes 

filled  with  prayer  I  [head, 

And  thee,   sad   Inez  !  bowing  thy  fair 

And  mantling  up  thy  face,  all  colourless 

with  dread  1 


And  Alvar  1  Alvar  I — I  beheld  thee  too, 
Pale,  stea'ofast,  kiugly,  till  thy  clear  glanct 

fell  [grew 

On  that  young  sister ;  then  perturbed  it 
And  all  thy  labouring  bosom  seemed  to 

swell 


THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY. 


287 


With  painful  tenderness.    Why  came  I 

there, 

That  troubled  image  of  2iy  friend  to  bear 
Thence,  for  my  after-years? — a  thing  to 

dwell  [rise, 

In  my  heart's  core,  and  on  the  darkness 
isquieting  my  dreams  with  its  bright 

mournful  eyes? 

lit, 

Why  came  I  ?— oh  I   the  heart's  deep 

mystery '. — Why  [gaze 

In  man's  last  hour  doth  vain  affection's 
Fix  itself  down  on  struggling  agony, 
To  the  dimmed  eye-balls  freezing  as  they 

glaze? 
It  might  be — yet  the  power  to  will  seemed 

o'er— 
That  my  soul  yearned  to  hear  his  voice 

once  more !  [amaze, 

But  mine  was  fettered ! — mute  m  strong 
I  watched  his  features  as  the  night-wind 

blew, 
And  torch-light  or  the  moon  s  passed  o'er 

their  marble  hue, 

LV. 

The  trampling  of  a  steed !— a  tall  white 

steed, 

Rending  his  fiery  way  the  crowds  among — 
A  storm's  way  through  a  forest — came  at 

speed,  [flung 

And  a  wild  voice  cried  "  Inez  1"  Swift  she 
The  mantle  from  her  face,  and  gazed 

around, 

With  a  faint  shriek  at  that  familiar  sound; 
Andfromhisseatabreathlessridersprung, 
And  dashed  off  fiercely  those  who  came 

to  part, 
And  rushed  to  that  pale  girl,  and  clasped 

her  to  his  heart. 


And  for  a  moment  all  around  gave  way 
To  that  full  burst  of  passion ! — on  his 

breast, 

Like  a  bird  panting,  yet  from  fear  she  lay, 
But  blest — in  misery's  very  lap  —  yet 

blest ! —  [an  hour 

O  love,  love  strong  as  death  ! — from  such 
Pressing  out  joy  by  thine  immortal  power, 
Holy  and  fervent  love  1  had  earth  but  rest 
For  thee  and  thine,  this  world  were  all 

too  fair ! 
How  could  we  thence  be  weaned  to  die 

without  despair  ? 


LVTl. 

But  she,  as  falls  a  willow  from  the  storm, 
O'er  its  own  river  streaming — thus  re- 
clined [form, 
On  the  youth's  bosom  hung  her  fragile 
And  clasping  al  ns,  so  passionately  twined 
Aro-nd  his  neck — with  such  a  trusting 

fold, 

A  full  deep  sense  of  safety  in  their  hold, 
As  if  nought  earthly  might  th'  embrace 

unbind ! 

Alas  !  a  child's  fond  faith,  believing  still 
Its  mother's  breast  beyond  the  lightning's 
reach  to  kill  I 

Lvni. 

Brief  rest!   upon  the  turning  billow's 

height,  [strain, 

A  strange,  sweet  moment  of  some  heavenly 
Floating  between  the  savage  gusts  of 

night,  [again 

That  sweep  the  seas  to  foam  I  Soon  dark 
The  hour  —  the  scene  —  th'  intensely 

present,  rushed 
Back  on  her  spirit,  and  her  large  tears 

gushed 
Like  blood-drops  from  a  victim  ;  with 

swift  rain  [hour, 

Bathing  the  bosom  where  she  leaned  that 

As  if  her  life  would  melt  into  th'o'erswelling 

shower. 

L1X. 

But  be,  whose  arm  sustained  her ! — oh  1 

I  knew 
Twas  vain,  —  and  yet  he  hoped! — he 

fondly  strove  [woo, 

Back  from  her  faith  her  sinking  soul  to 
As  life  might  yet  be  hers  1 — A  dream  of 

love 

Which  could  not  look  upon  so  fairathing, 
Remembering  how  like  hope,  like  joy, 

like  spring,  [move, 

Her  smile  was  wont  to  glance,  her  step  to 

And  deem  that  men  indeed,  in  very  truth, 

Could  mean  the  sting  of  death  for  her  soft 

flowering  youth ! 


He  wooed  her  back  to  life. — "Sweet 

Inez,  live ! 

My  blessed  Inez  1 — visions  have  beguiled 
Thy  heart — abjure    them  1  —  thou  werf 

formed  to  give,  [smiled 

And  to  find,  joy ;  and  hath  not  sunshine 
Around  thee  ever  ?    Leave  roe  not,  mine 

own !  [alone, 

Or  earth  will  grow  too  dark !— for  fc$% 


THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY. 


Thee  have  I  loved,  thou  gentlest !  from  a 
child,  [sea, 

And  borne  thine  image  with  me  o'er  the 
Thy  soft  voice  in  my  soul — speak  1  Oh  1  yet 
live  for  me  1" 


She  looked  up  wildly ;  tnere  were  anxious 

eyes  [thought, 

Waiting  that  look — sad  eyes  of  troubled 

Alvar's — Theresa's  I — Did  her  childhood 

rise,  [fraught, 

With  all  its  pure  and  home-affections 

In  the  brief  glance?— She  clasped  her 

hands — the  strife  [life, 

Of  love,  faith,  feat,  and  that  vain  dream  of 

Within  her  woman's  breast  so  deeply 

wrought, 

It  seemed  as  if  a  reed  so  slight  and  weak 
Must,  in  the  rending  storm  act  quiver  only- 
break  ! 

LXII. 

And  thus  it  was— the  young  cheek  flushed 

and  faded,  [went, 

As  the  swift  blood  in  currents  came  and 

And  hues  of  death  the  marble  brow  o'er- 

shaded, 

And  the  sunk  eye  a  watery  lustre  sent 
Through  its  white  fluttering  lids.    Then 
tremblings  passed  [blast 

O'er  the  frail  form,  that  shook  it,  as  the 
Shakes  the  sere  leaf,  until  the  spirit  rent 
Its  way  to  peace— the  fearful  way  un- 
known— 

Pale  in  love's  arms  she  lay — ske  I — what  had 
loved  was  gone  t 

LXIII. 

Joy  for  thee,  trembler  1— thou  redeemed 
one,  joy  !  [less  clay, 

Young  dove  set  free  1 — earth,  ashes,  soul- 
Remained  for  baffled  vengeance  to  de- 
stroy ;—  fawaX 
Thy  chain  was  riven ! — nor  hadst  thou  cast 
Thy  hope  in  thy  last  hour  1— though  love 
was  there                                  [prayer, 
Striving  to  wring  thy  troubled  soul  from 
And  life  seemed  robed  in  beautiful'array, 
Too  fair  to  leave  1— but  ffeis  might  be 

forgiven, 

|  Thou  wert  so  richly  crowned  with  precious 
gifts  of  Heaven  I 

LXIV. 

But  woe  for  him  who  felt  the  heart  grow 
Wfcich,  with  its  weight  of  agony,  bad  lain 


Breaking  on  his  ! — Scarce  could  the  mor- 
tal chill  [again, 
Of  the  hushed  bosom,    ne'er  to  heave 
And  all  the  silence  curdling  round  the  eye, 
Bring  home  the  stern  belief  that  she  could 
die,  [vain 
That  she  indeed  could  die  ! — for  wild  and 
As  hope  might  be — his  soul  had  hoped— 

'twas  o'er — 

Slowly  his  failing  arms  dropped  from  the 
form  they  bore. 

LXV. 

They  forced  him  from  that  spot.— It 
,    might  be  well,  [wrung 

That  the  fierce,  reckless  words  by  anguish 
From  his  torn  breast,  all  aimless  as  they 

fell, 
Like  spray-drops  from  the  strifeof  torrent* 

flung, 
Were  marked  as  guilt.— There  are,  who 

note  these  things  [strings — 

Against  the  smitten  heart ;  its  breaking 
On  whose  low  thrills  once  gentle  music 

hung — 

With  a  rude  hand  of  touch  unholy  trying, 
And  numbering  then  as  crimes,  the  deep. 

strange  tones  replying. 


But  ye  in  solemn  joy,  O  faithful  pair  ! 
Stood  gazing  on  your  parted  sister's  dustl 
I  saw  your  features  by  the  torch's  glare, 
And  they  were  brightening  with  a  heaven- 
ward trust  I 

I  saw  the  doubt,  the  anguish,  the  dismay, 
Melt  from  my  Alvar's  glorious  mien  away; 
And  peace  was  there — the  calmness  of 

the  just  I 
And,  bending  down  the  slumberer's  brow 

to  kiss, 

1 '  Thy  rest  is  won, "  he  said ;  ' '  sweet  sister ! 
praise  for  this  I" 

LXVH. 

I  started  as  from  sleep ; — yes  !  he  had 

spoken—  [source  I 

A  breeze  had  troubled  memory's  hidden 
Atonce  the  torpor  of  mysoul  was  broken — 
Thought,  feeling,  passion,  woke  in  tenfold 

force.—  [wind, 

There  are  soft  breathings  in  the  southern 
That  so  your  ice-chains,  O  ye  streams  i 

unbind, 
And  free  the  foaming  swiftness  of  your 

50UTS9  i— « 


THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY. 


289 


I  burst  from  those  that  held  me  h  ck, 

and  fell 

Even  on  his  neck,  and  cried  — "  Friend  1 
brother  I  fare  thee  well  I" 

Lxvm. 

Did  he  not  say  "Farewell?" — Alas  !  no 

breath 

Came  to  mine  ear.     Hoarse  murmurs 
from  the  throng  [death 

Told  that  the  mysteries  in  the  face  of 
Had  from  their  eager  sight  been  veiled 
too  long.  [part 

And  we  were  parted  as  the  surge  might 
Those  that  would  die  together,  true  of 
heart. —  [strong, 

His  hour  was  come — but  in  mine  anguish 
Like  a  fierce  swimmer  through  the  mid- 
night sea, 

Blindly  I  rushed  away  from  that  which  was 
to  be. 

LXIX. 

Away — away  I  rushed  ; — but  swift  and 

high 

The  arrowy  pillars  of  the  firelight  grew, 
Till  the  transparent  darkness  of  the  sky 
Flushed  to  a  blood-red  mantle  in  their 

hue ;  [seemed 

And,   phantom-like,    the    kindling    city 
To  spread,  float,  wave,  as  on  the  wind 

they  streamed,  [I  knew 

With  their  wild  splendour  chasing  me  1 — 
The  death-work  was  begun — I  veiled 

mine  eyes, 
Yet  stopped  in  spell-bound  fear  to  catch  the 

victims'  cries. 

LXX. 

What  heard  I  then  ?— a  ringing  shriek  of 

pain, 

Such  as  for  ever  haunts  the  tortured  ear? — 
I  heard  a  sweet  and  solemn-breathing 

strain  [clear ! — 

Piercing  the  flames,    un tremulous   and 
The  rich,  triumphal  tones ! — I  knew  them 

well, 

As  they  came  floating  with  a  breezy  swell  I 
Man's  voice  was  there — a  clarion  voice  to 

cheer 

In  the  mid-battle — ay,  to  turn  the  flying — 
Woman's — that  might  have  sung  of  Heaven 

beside  the  dying  1 


It  was  a  fearful,  yet  a  glorious  thing 
To  hear  that  hymn  of  martyrdom,  and 
'know 


That  its  glad  stream  of  melody  could 

spring 

Up  from  th'  unsounded  gulfs  of  human 
woe  I  [strong?— 

Alvar  t  Theresa !— what  Is  deep  ?  what 
God's  breath  within  the  soul  1— It  filled 
that  song  [glow 

From  your  victorious  voices ! — but  the 
On  the  hot  air  and  lurid  skies  increased — 
Faint  grew  the  sounds — more  faint — I  lis- 
tened— they  had  ceased  1 

LXXII. 

And  thou  indeed   hadst  perished,  my 

soul's  friend  1 

I  might  form  other  ties — but  thou  alone 
Couldst  with  a  glance  the  veil  of  dimness 

rend,  [thrown ! 

By  other  years  o'er  boyhood's  memory 
Others  might  aid  me  on  ward : — thou  and  I 
Had  mingled  the  fresh  thoughts  that 

early  die, 
Once  flowering — never  more  I — And  thou 

wert  gone  1 
Who  could  give   back  my  youth,  my 

spirit  free, 
Or  be  in  aught  again  what  thou  hadst  been 

to  me? 

LXXIII. 

And  yet  I  wept  thee  not,  thou  true  and 
brave  1 

I  could  not  weep ; — there  gathered  round 
thy  name  [grave  1 

Too  deep  a   passion  I — thou  denied  a 

Thou,  with  the  blight  flung  on  thy  sol- 
dier's fame  1 

Had  I  not  known  thy  heart  from  child- 
hood's time? 

Thy  heart  of  hearts  ? — and  couldst  thou 
die  for  crime? — 

No  !  had  all  earth  decreed  that  death 
of  shame,  [decree, 

I  would  have  set,  against  all  earth's 
Th'  inalienable  trust  of  my  firm  soul  in  thee  J 

LXXIV. 

There  are  swift  hours  in  life — strong, 

rushing  hours,  [might  I 

That  do  the  work  of  tempests  in  their 
They  shake  down  things  that  stood  aa 

rocks  and  towers 
Unto  th'  undoubting  mind  ; — they  pout 

In  light 

Where  it  but  startles — like  a  burst  of  day 
For  which  the  uprooting  of  an  oak  make* 

way ;— 


290 


TEE  FOEE3T  8ANOTUAE7. 


They  sweep  the  colouring  mists  from  off 

our  sight, 
They  touch  with  fire  thought's  graven 

page,  the  roll 
Stamped    with    past    years — and   la!,   it 

shrivels  as  a  scroll  I. 

I.XX.V, 

And  this  was  of  such  Hours  t—-tb«  sudden 

flow- 
,0f  my  soul's  tide  seemed  whelming  me  ; 

the  glare 

Of  the  red  flames,  yet  rocking  to  and  fro, 
Scorched  up  my  heart  with  breathless 

thirst  for  air, 

And  solitude  and  freedom.  It  had  been 
Well  with,  me,  then,,  in  some  vast  desert 

scene, 
To  pour  my  voice  put,  for  the  winds  to 

bear. 

On  with  them,  wildly  questioning  the  sky, 
Fiercely  th'  untroubled  stars,  of  man's,  dim 

destiny. 

LXXV7. 

I  would  have  called,  adjuring  the  dark 

cloud  ; 
To  the  most  ancient  Heavens  I  would 

have  said — 
"Speak  to  me!     show  me  truth  I" — 

through  night  aloud 
I  would  have  cried  to  him,  the  newly 

dead, 
"Come  back  !  and  show  me  truth  I" — 

My  spirit  seemed 

Gasping  for  some  free  burst,  its  dark- 
ness teemed 
With  such  pent  storms  of  thought  I — 

again  I  fled — 

I  fled,  a  refuge  from  man's  face  to  gain, 
Scarce  conscious  when  I  paused,  entering 

a  lonely  fane. 

LXXVII. 

A  mighty  minster,  dim,  and  proud,  and 

vast  1  [floor 

Silence  was  round  the  sleepers  whom  its 
Shut  in  the  graven  a  shadow  of  the  past, 
A  memory  of  the  sainted  steps  that  wore 
Erewhile  its  gorgeous  pavement,  seemed 

to  brood 

Like  mist  upon  the  stately  solitude, 
A  halo  of  sad  fame  to  mantle. o'er 
Its  .white  sepulchral  forms  of.  mail-clad 

men, 
And  all  was  hushed  as  night  in  some 

deep  Alpine  glen., 


LXXV1IL 

More  hushed,  far  more  I — for  there  the 
wind  sweeps  by,  [play  I 

Or  the  woods  tremble  to  the  streams'  loud 
Here  a  strange  echo  made  my  very  sigh 
Seem  for  the  place- too  much  a  sound  of 

day  I 

Top  much  my  footstep  broke  the  moon-- 
light, fading,  [pervading ; 
Yet  arch  through  arch  in.  one  soft  flow 
And  I  stood  still  :-*-prayer,   chant,  had 

died  away,. 

Yet  past  me  floated  a  funeral  breath 
Of  incense. — I  stood  still — as  before  God 
and' death.!. 

LXXIX. 

Ecus  thick  ye  girt  me  round,  ye  long- 
departed  I 

Dust — imaged  form — with-  cross,  and 
shield,  and  crest  ;•  [started, 

It  seemed  as  if  your  ashes  would  have 

Had  a  wild  voice  burst  forth  above  your 
rest !  [yore 

Yet  ne'er,  perchance,  did  worshipper  of 

Bear  to  your  thrilling^  presence  what  / 
bore 

Of  wrathr— doubt — anguish— battling  in 
the  breast !  [pale  air, 

I  could  hr.ve  poured  out  words,  on  that 
To  make  your  proud  tombs  ring,:— no,  no! 
I  could  not  then  I 

LXXX. 

Not  'midst  those  aisles,  through  which  a 

thousand  years  [swept ; 

Mutely  as  clouds  and   reverently  had 
Not  by  those  shrines,  which  yet  the  trace 

of  tears  [kept  I 

And  kneeling  votaries  on  their  marble 
Ye  were  too  mighty  in  your  pomp  of 

gloom 

And  trophied  age,  O  temple,  altar,  tomb  t 
And.  you,  ye  dead  I — for  in  that  faith  ye 

slept, 
Whose  weight  had  grown  a  mountain's 

on  my  heart, 
Which  could  not  there  be  loosed. — I  turned  j 

me  to  depart. 


I  turned — what  glimmered  faintly  on  my 
sight,  [snow 

Faintly,  yet  brightening  as  a  wreath  of 

Seen  through  dissolving  haze?—  Th* 
moon,  the  night, 

Had  waned,  and  dawn. poured  in. ; — gjay , 
shadowy,  slow. 


THE  FOREST  8ANOTUASY. 


291 


Yet  dayspring  still ! — a  solemn  hue  it 

caught, 
Piercing   the   storied  windows,   darkly 

fraught  [glow ; 

With  stoles  and  draperies  'of  imperial 
And  soft,  and  sad,  that  colouring  gleam 

was  thrown, 
Where,  pale,  a  pictured  form  above  the 

altar  shone. 

LXXXII. 

Thy  form,  Thou  Son  of  God !— a  wrathful 

deep, 
With   foam,   and   cloud,   and  tempest 

round  Thee  spread, 

And  such  a  weight  of  night  1 — a  night, 

'  when  sleep  [fled. 

From  the  fierce  rocking  of  the  billows 

A  bark  showed  dim  beyond  Thee,  with 

its  mast  [blast ; 

Bowed,  and  its  rent  sail  shivering  to  the 
But,  like  a  spirit  in  Thy  gliding  tread, 
Thou,   as  o'er  glass,  didst   walk  that 

stormy  sea 
Through  rushing  winds,  which  left  a  silent 

path  for  Thee. 

LXXXIII. 

So  still  Thy  white  robes  fell  1— no  breath 

of  air 
Within  their  long  and  slumb'rous  folds 

had  sway ! 

So  still  the  waves  of  parted,  shadowy  hair 
From  Thy  clear  brow  flowed  droogingly 

away  I 
Dark  were  the  Heavens  above  Thee, 

Saviour  i — dark  [bark  I 

The  gulfs,  Deliverer  1  round  the  straining 
But  Thou  1 — o'er  all  Thine  aspect  and 

array 
Was  poured  one  stream  of  pale,  broad, 

silvery  light — 

Fhou  wert  the  single  star  of  that  all- 
shrouding  night  I 

Lxxxrv. 

Aid  for  one  sinking !— Thy  lone  bright- 
ness gleamed 

On  his  wild  face,  just  lifted  o'er  the  wave, 

With  its  worn,  Jarful,  human  look,  that 
seemed 

To  cry,  through  surge  and  blast — "I 
perish — save  1" 

Not  to  the  winds — not  vainly  ! — Thou 
wert  nigh,  [agony, 

Thy   hand  was  stretched    to   fainting 

Even  in  the  portals  of  th'  •unquiet  grave  I 


O  Thou  that  art  the  life !  and  yet  didst 

bear 

Too  much  of  mortal  woe  to  turn  from 
mortal  prayer  I 

LXXXV. 

But  was  it  not  a  thing  to  rise  on  death 
With  its  remembered  light,  that  face  of 
Thine,  [breath, 

Redeemer  I  dimmed  by  this  world's  misty 
Yet  mounfully,  mysteriously  divine? — 
Oh  !  that  calm,  sorrowful,  prophetic  eye, 
With  its  dark  depths  of  grief,  love,  ma- 
jesty 1  [shrine 
And  the  pale  glory  of  the  brow ! — a 
Where  Power  sat  veiled,  yet  shedding 

softly  round 

What  told  that  Thou  couldst  be  but  for  a 
time  uncrowned  1 

LXXXVI. 

And  more  than  all,  the  Heaven  of  that 

sad  smile  1 

The  lip  of  mercy,  our  immortal  trust ! 
Did  not  that  look,  that  very  look,  ere- 

while,  [dust  ? 

Pour  its  o'ershadowed   beauty  on  the 
Wert  Thou  not  such  when  earth's  dark 

cloud  hung  o'er  Thee  ? — 
Surely    Thou    wert ! — my    heart    grew 

hushed  before  Thee, 
Sinking  with  all  its  passions,  as  the  gust 
Sank  at  Thy  voice,   along  its  billowy 

way : — 
What  had  I  there  to  do,  but  kneel,  and 

weep,  and  pray? 

LXXXVII. 

">   Amidst  the  stillness  rose  my  spirit's  cry, 
Amidst  the  dead — "  By  that  full  cup  of 

woe, 

Pressed  from  the  fruitage  of  mortality, 
Saviour  I  by  Thee — give  light  I .  that  I 

may  know 

If  by  Thy  will,  in  Thine  all-healing  name, 
Men  cast  down  human  hearts  to  blight- 
ing shame, 

And  early  death — and  say,  if  this  be  so, 
Where  then  is  mercy?— whither  shall  we 

flee, 

So  unnllied  to  hope,  save  by  our  hold  oo 
Thee? 

LXXXVIH. 

"But  didst  Thou    not,   the  deep   sea 

brightly  treading,  [waVe  .- 

Lift  from  despair  that  straggler  with  the 


292 


THE  FOREST  SANCTUABI. 


And  wert  Thou  not,  sad  tears,  yet  awful, 

shedding, 

Beheld,  a  weeper  at  a  mortal's  grave? 
And  is  this  weight  of  anguish,  which  they 

bind 

On  .life,  this  searing  to  the  quick  of  mind, 
That  but  to  God  its  own  free  path  would 

crave,  [youth, 

This  crushing  out  of  hope,  and  love,  and 

T'ny  will  indeed  ? — Give  light  I  that  I  may 

know  the  truth  I 

LXXXIX. 

"  For  my  sick  soul  is  darkened  unto 

death,  Jseen ; 

With  shadows  from  the  suffering  it  hath 
The  strong  foundations  of  mine  ancient 

faith  [lean  ? 

Sink  from  beneath  me — whereon  shall  I 
Oh  I  if  from  Thy  pure  lips  was  wrung 

the  sigh  [die,— 

Of  the  dust's  anguish  I  if  fake  man  to 
And  earth  round  him  shuts  heavily — 

hath  been  f— turn 

Even  to  Thee  bitter,  aid  me  ! — guide  me  I 

My  wild  and  wandering    thoughts  back 

from  their  starless  bourne  I" — 


And  calmed  I  rose  -.—but  how  the  while 
had  risen  [shade  !— - 

Morn's  orient  sun,  dissolving  mist  and 
Could  there  indeed  be  wrong,  or  chain, 
or  prison,  [pervade  ? 

In  the  bright  world  such  radiance  might 
It  filled  the  fane,  it  mantled  the  pale  form 
Which  rose  before  me  through  the  pic- 
tured storm, 

Even  the  grey  tombs  it  kindled,  and 

arrayed  [begun, 

With  life  I — How  hard  to  see  thy  race 

And  think  man  wakes  to  grief,  wakening 

to  thee,  O  Sun  1 

XCI. 

I  sought  my  home  again  : — and  tbou, 

my  child,  [pine, 

There  at  thy  play  beneath  yon  ancient 


With  eyes,  whose  lightning-laughter  hath 

beguiled 
A  thousand  pangs,  thence  flashing  joy  to 

mine ; 
Thou  in  thy  mother's  arms,  a  babe,  didst 

meet 
My  coming  with  young  smiles,  which 

yet,  though  sweet, 
Seemed  on  my  soul  all  mournfully  to 

shine, 

And  ask  a  happier  heritage  for  thee, 
Than  but  in  turn  the  blight  of  human  hope 

to  see, 

XCII. 

Now  sport,  for  thou  art  free,  the  bright 

birds  chasing 
Whose  wings  waft  star-like  gleams  from 

tree  to  tree ; 

Or  with  the  fawn,-  thy  swift  wood-play- 
mate racing. 
Sport  on,  my  joyous  child  I  for  thou  art 

free  I 

Yes,  on  that  day  I  took  thee  to  my  heart, 
And  inly  vowed,  for  thee  a  better  part 
To  choose ;  that  so  thy  sunny  bursts  of 

glee 
Should  wake  no  more  dim  thoughts  of 

far-seen  woe, 
But,  gladdening  fearless  eyes,  flow  on — ns 

now  they  flow. 

xcni. 

Thou  hast  a  rich  world  round  thee  :— 
Mighty  shades  [head, 

Weaving  their  gorgeous  tracery  o'er  thy 

With  the  light  melting  through  their 
high  arcades, 

As  through  a  pillared  cloister's  :  but  the 
dead 

Sleep  not  beneath ;  nor  doth  the  sun- 
beam pass 

To   marble   shrines    through  rainbow- 
tinted  glass ; 

Yet  thou,  by  fount  and  forest-murmur  led 

To  worship,  thou  art  blest  .1 — to  thee  is 

shown 

Earth  in  her  holy  pomp,  decked  for  her 
God  alone. 


THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY. 


293 


PART  SECOND. 

•  Wle  diese  treue  fiebe  Seek 
Von  ihrem  Glauben  voll, 
Der  ganz  alleia 

Ihr  sellg  machend  ist,  slch  heillg  quale. 
Das  sie  den  liebsten  Mann  verloren  hat  ten.  noli  t'—FaUfi. 

"  I  never  shall  smile  more — but  all  my  days 
Walk  with  sdll  footsteps  and  with  humble  eyes, 
An  everlasting  hymn  within  my  souL" — WILSON. 


SRING  me  the  sounding  of  the  torrent- 
water,  [awake  1 

With  yet  a  nearer  swell — fresh  breeze, 

And  river,  darkening  ne'er  with  hues  of 
slaughter 

Thy  wave's  pure  silvery  green, — and 
shining  lake, 

Spread  far  before  my  cabin,  with  thy  zone 

Of  ancient  woods,  ye  chainless  things 
and  lone  1 

Send  voices  through  the  forest  aisles, 
and  make  [dare, 

Glad  music  round  me,  that  my  soul  may 
Cheered  by  such  tones,  to  look  back  on  & 
dungeon's  air  1 


O  Indian  hunter  of  the  dessert's  race ! 

That  with  the  spear  at  times,  or  bended 
bow, 

Dost  cross  my  footsteps  in  thy  fiery  chase 

Of  the  swift  elk  or  blue  hill's  flying  roe  ; 

Thou  that  beside  the  red  night-fire  thou 
heapest,  [sleepest, 

Beneath  the  cedars  and  the  star-light 

Thou  know'st  not,  wanderer  —  never 
may'st  thou  know ! 

Of  the  dark  holds  wherewith  man  cam- 
bers earth, 

To  shut  from  human  eyes  the  dancing 
season's  mirth. 

m. 

There,  fettered  down  from  day,  to  think 
the  while  [glowing, 

How  bright  in  Heaven  the  festal  sun  is 

Baking  earth's  loneliest  places,  with  his 
smile, 

Flush  like  the  rose  ;  and  how  the  streams 
are  flowing 

With  sudden  sparkles  through  the  sha- 
dowy grass,  [pass ; 

And  water-flowers,  all  trembling  as  they 

And  how  the  rich,  dark  summer-trees  are 
bowing 


With  their  full  foliage  ; — this  to  know, 

and  pine, 

Bound  unto  midnight's  heart,  seems  a  stern 
lot — 'twas  mine. 

rv. 

Wherefore  was  this  ? — Because  my  soul 

had  drawn 
Light  from  the  book  whose  words  are 

graved  in  light !  [dawn, 

There,  at  its  well-head,  had  I  found  the 
And  day,  and  noon  of  freedom :— but 

too  bright  [given, 

It  shines  on  that  which  man  to  man  hath 
And  called  the   truth — the  "very  truth 

from  Heaven  I  [sight, 

And  therefore  seeks  he,  In  his  brother's 
To  cast  the  mote ;  and  therefore  strives 

to  bind 
With  his  strong  chains  to  earth,  what  iy 

not  earth  s — the  mind  I 

V. 

It  is  a  weary  and  a  bitter  (ask 

Back  from  the  lip  the  burning  word  to 
keep, 

And  to  shut  out  Heaven's  fir  with  false- 
hood's mask, 

And  in  the  dark  urn  of  the  soul  to  heap 

Indignant  feelings  —  making  even  of 
thought 

A  buried  treasure,  which  may  but  be 
sought 

When  shadows  are  abroad — and  night  — 
and  sleep 

I  might  not  brook  it  long— and  thus  was 

thrown  [alone. 

Into  that  grave-lilce  cel'u  to  wither  there 


And  I,  a  child  of  danger,  whose  delights 
Were  on  dark  hills  and  niany-sounding 

seas — 

I,  that  amidst  the  Cordillera  heights 
Had  given  Castilian  banners  to  the  breeze 


294 


THE  FOREST  BANOTUAKT. 


And  the  full  circle  of  the  rainbow  seen 
There,  on  the  snows,  and  in  my  country 

been 

A  mountain  wanderer,  from  the  Pyrenees 
To  the  Morena  crags — how  left  I  not 
Life,  or  the  soul's  life,  quenched  out,  on 

that  sepulchral  spot  ? 

VII. 

Because  Thou  didst  .not  leave  me,  O  my 

God  1  [of  old 

Thou  wert  with  those  that  bore  the  truth 
Into  the  deserts  from  th'  oppressor's  rod, 
And  made  the  caverns  of  the  rock  their 

fold; 

And  in  the  hidden  chambers  of  the  dead, 
Our  guiding  lamp  with  fire  immortal  fed ; 
And  met  when  stars  met,  by  their  beams 

to  hold 
The     free     heart's     communing    with 

Thee,— and  Thou 
Wert    in    the    midst,    felt,   owned — the 

Strengthener  then  as  now  1 

VIII. 

Yet  once  I  sank.    Alas !  man's  wavering 

mind  I 
Wherefore  and  whence  the  gusts  that 

o'er  it  blow  ? 
How  they  bear  with  them,  floating  un- 

combined  [go, 

The  shadows  of  the  past,  that  come  and 
As  o'er  the  deep  the  old  long-buried 

things,  [brings  I 

Which  a  storm's  working  to  the  surface 
Is  the  reed  shaken, — and  must  we  be  so, 
With  every  wind  ? — So,  Father  1  must 

we  be, 
Till  we  can  fix  undimmed  our  steadfast 

eyes  on  Thee. 

IX. 

Once  my  soul  died  within  me.    What 

had  thrown  [thought 

That  sickness  o'er  it  ? — Even  a  passing 
Of  a.  clear  spring,  whose  side,  with 

flowers  o'ergrown,  [sought  I 

Fondly  and  oft  my  boyish  steps  had 
Perchance  the  damp  roofs  water-drops, 

that  fell 
Just    then,   low    tinkling    through    my 

vaulted  cell, 
Intensely    heard   amidst   the   stillness, 

caught  [welling 

Some  tone  from  memory,  of  the  music, 

Ever  with  -that  fresh  rill,  from  its  deep 

rocky  dwelling. 


X. 

But    so   my    spirit's   fevered   longings 

wrought 
Wakening,  it   might   be,  to  the  faint, 

sad  sonnd,  [brought 

That  from  the  darkness  of  the  walls  they 
A  loved  scene  round  me,  visibly  around. 
Yesl  kindling,  spreading,  brightening, 

bjie  by  hue, 
Like  stars  -from  midnight,  through  the 

gloom  it  grew, 
That  haunt  of  youth,  hope,  manhood  I— 

till  the  bound 
'Of  my  shut  cavern  seemed  dissolved, 

and  I 
Girt  by  the  solemn  lulls  and  "burning  pomp 

XI. 

I  looked— and  lo  !  the  dear,  broad  rivet 

Sowing, 

Past  the-old  Moorish  ruin  on  the  steep, 
The  lone  tower  dark  against  a  Heaven 
all  'glowing,  [sweep 

Like  seas  of  glass  and  fire  I — I  saw  the 
Of  glorious  woods  far  'down  the  moun- 
tain side,  [tide, 
And  their  still  shadows  in  the  gleaming 
And  the  red  evening  on  its  waves  asleep ; 
And  "midst  the  scene — oh  1  more  than 

all — there  smiled 

My  child's  fair  face,  and  hers,  the  mother 
of  my  child  1 

xn. 

With  their  soft  eyes  of  love  and  gladness 

raised 

Up  to  the  flushing  sky,  as  when  we  stood 
Last  by  that  river,  and  in  silence  gazed 
On  the  rich  world  of  sunset : — but  a  flood 
Of  sudden  tenderness  my  soul  oppressed, 
'And  I  rushed  forward  with  a  yearning 

breast  [wood, 

To  clasp— alas  1 — a  vision  I — Wave  and 
And  gentle  faces,  lifted  in  the  light 
Of  day's  last  hectic  blush,  all  melted  from 

my  sight. 

XIII. 

Then  darkness  1— Oh  I    th'  unutterable 

gloom  [making  less 

That  seemed   as  narrowing  round  me, 

And  less  my  dungeon,  when,  with  all 

its  bloom,  [Loneliness  I 

That  brignt  dream  vanished  from  my 

It  floated  off,  the  beautiful  I— yet  left 

Such  deep  thirst  in  my  soul,  that  thus 

bereft,  [excess, 

I  lay  down,  sk&  with   passion  s   vain 


THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY. 


295 


And  prayed  to    die. — How  oft  would 

sorrow  weep 

Her  weariness  to  death,  if  he  might  come 
like  sleep. 

xnr. 

But  I  was  roused — and  how?— It  Is  no 

tale  [to  tell ! 

Even  'midst  thy  shades,  thou  wilderness, 
I  vould  not  have  my  boy's  young  cheek 

made  pale, 

Nor  haunt  his  sunny  rest  with  what  befel 
In  that  drear  prison-house.  His  eye 

must  grow 
More  dark  with  thought,  more  earnest 

his  fair  brow, 
More  high  his  heart  in  youthful  strength 

must  swell ;. 

So  stall  it  fitly  bum  when  all  is  told  : — 
Let  childhood's  radiant  mist  the  free  chMd 

yet  hfold  t 

XV. 

It  is  enough  that  through  such  heavy 

hours, 

As  wring  us  by  pur  fellowship  of  clay, 
I    lived,    and   undegraded.    We    hare 

povers 

To  sntteh  th  'oppressor's  bluer  joy  away ! 
Shall  the  wild  Indian,  for  his  savage  fame, 
Laugh  and  expire,  and  shall  not  Truth's 

high  name  [sway  ? 

Bear  up  her  martyrs  with  all-conquering 

It  is  enough  that  Torture  may  be  vain — 

I  had  seen  Alvar  die — the  strife  was  won 

from  Pain. 

XVI. 

And  faint  not,  heart  of  man  I  though 

years  wane  slow  I 
There  have  been  those  that  from  the 

deepest  caves, 

And  cells  of  night,  and  fastnesses  below 
The  stormy  dashing  of  the  ocean-waves, 
Down,  farther  down  than  gold  lies  hid, 

have  nursed 
A  quenchless  hope,  and  watched  their 

time,  and  burst 
On  the  bright  day,  like  wakeners  from 

the  graves  ! 

I  was  of  such  at  last ! — unchained  I  trod 
T  his  green  earth,  taking  back  my  freedom 

from  my  God  I 

XVII. 

That  was  an  hour  to  send  its  fadeless 

trace 
Down  life's  far-sweeping  tide  I — A  dim, 

wild  night. 


Like  sorrow,  bung  upon  ,  -    «      moon's 

[face, 

Yet  how  my  heart  leaped  in  her  blessed 
light !  [sea— 

The  shepherd's  light — the  sailor's  on  the 
The  hunter's  homeward  from  the  moun- 
tains free,  [bright 
Where  its  lone  smile  makes  tremulously 
The  thousand  streams  1 — I  could  but 

gaze  through  tears — 

Oh  I  what  a  sight  is  heaven,  thus  first 
beheld  for  years  1 

XVIII. 

The  rolling  clouds  I — they  have  the  whole 

blue  space 

Above  to  sail  in — all  the  dome  of  sky  I 
My  soiil  shot  with  them  in  their  breezy 

race  [fly, 

O'er  star  and  gloom  I — but  I  had  yet  to 
As  flies  the  hunted  wolf.     A  secret  spot 
And  strange,  1  knew — the  sunbeam  knew 

it  not ; — 

Wildest  of  all  the  savage  glens  that  lie 

In  far  sierras,  hiding  their  deep  springs, 

And  traversed  but  by  storms,  or  sounding 

eagles'  wings. 


Ay.  and  I  met  the  storm  there  ! — 1  had 

gained 
The  covert's  heart  with  swift  and  stealthy 

tread  ; 
A  moan  went  past  me,  and  the  dark  trees 

rained  [head ; 

Their  autumn  foliage  rustling  on  my 
A  moan — a  hollow  gust,  and  there  I  stood 
Girt  with  majestic  night,  and  ancient 

wood,  [fled 

And  foaming  water. — Thither  might  nave 
The  mountain  Christian  with  his  faith  of 

yore, 
When  Afric's  tambour  shook  the  ringing 

western  shore  I 

XX. 

But  through  the  black  ravine  the  storm 

came  swelling,—  [blast  I 

Mighty  thou  art  amidst  the  hills,  thou 
In  thy  lone  course  the  kingly  cedars 

felling, 

Like  plumes  upon  the  path  of  battle  cast  I 
A  rent  oak  thundered  down  beside  my 

cave,  [wave ; 

Booming  It  rushed,  as  booms  a  deep  sca- 
A  falcon  soared  ;  a  start  led  wild-duet 

passed; 


296 


THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY. 


A  far-off  bell  tolled  faintly  through  the 

roar : — 

How  my  glad  spirit  swept  forth  with  the 
winds  once  more  1 


XXL 

And  with  the  arrowy  lightnings !— for 

they  flashed, 

Smiting  the  branches  in  their  fitful  play, 
And  brightly  shivering  where  the  torrents 
dashed  [spray  I 

Up,  even  to  crag  and  eagle's  nest,  their 
And  there  to  stand  amidst  the  pealing 
*  strife, 

The  strong  pines  groaning  with  tempes- 
tuous life,  [way, — 
And  all  the  mountain-voices  on  their 
Was  it  not  joy  ?—  'twas  joy  in  rushing 

might, 

After  those  years  that  wove  but  one  long 
dead  of  night  I 

xxn. 

There  came  a  softer  hour,  a  lovelier  moon, 
And  lit  'me  td  my  home  of  youth  again, 
Through  the  dim  chestnut  shade,  where 

oft  at  noon, 
By  the  fount's  flashing  burst,  my  head 

had  lain 

In  gentle  sleep  :  but  now  I  passed  as  one 

That  may  not  pause  where  wood-streams 

.  '    whispering  run,  [strain, 

Or  light  sprays  tremble  to  a  bird's  wild 

Because  th'  avenger's  voice  is  in  the  wind, 

The  foe's  quick,  rustling  step  close  on  the 

leaves  behind. 


My  home  of  youth  I — oh !  if  indeed  to 

part  [thing, 

With  the  soul's  loved  ones  be  a  mournful 
When  we  go  forth  in  buoyancy  of  heart, 
And  bearing  all  the  glories  of  our  spring 
For  life  to  breathe  on, — is  it  less  to  meet, 
Whpn  these  are  faded  ? — who  shall  call 

it  sweet  ? — 
Even  though  love's  mingling  tears  may 

haply  bring  [showers 

Balm  as  they  fall,  too  well  their  heavy 

Teach  us  how  much  is  lost  of  all  that  once 

was  ours  I 

xxiv. 

Not  by  the  sunshine,  with  its  golden 

glow,  [sky, 

Nor  the  green  earth,  nor  yet  the  laughing 


Nor  the  fatal  flower-scents,  as  thay  come 

and  go 

In  the  soft  air,  like  music  wandering  by; — 
Oh  I  not  by  these,  th'  unfailing,  are  we 

taught  [wrought ; 

How  time  and  sorrow  on  our  frames  have 
But  by  the  saddened  brow,  the  darkened 

eye  [gaze, 

Of  kindred  aspects,  and  the  long  dim 

Which    tells   us   we   are    changed— how 

changed  from  other  days  ! 

XXV. 

Before  my  father— in  my  place  of  birth, 
I  stood  an  alien.    On  the  very  floor 
Which  oft  had  trembled  to  my  boyish 

mirth 
The  love  that  reared  me,  knew  my  face 

no  more  1  [crest, 

There  hung  the  antique  armour,  helm  and 
Whose  every  stain  woke  childhood  in  my 

breast, 
There  drooped  the  banner,  with  the  marks 

it  bore  [frame 

Of  Paynim  spears  ;  and  I,  the  vrorn  in 

And  heart,  what  there  was  I  ? — another  and 

the  same ! 

XXVI. 

Then  bounded  in  a  boy,  with  cbar,  dark 

eye — 
How  should  he  know  his  father  ?— when 

we  parted, 

From  the  soft  cloud  which  mantles  infancy, 
His  soul,  just  wakening  into  wcnder, 

darted  [the  bride 

Its  first  looks  round.  Him  followed  one, 
Of  my  young  days,  the  wife  how  toved 

and  tried  1 
Her  glance  met  mine — I  could  not  speak 

— she  started  [came 

With  a  bewildered  gaze  ; — until    there 

Tears  to  my  burning  eyes,  and  from  n»y 

lips  her  name. 

XXVII. 

She  knew    me    then  I  —  I   murmured 

"  Leonorl" 
And  her  heart  answered  I  — oh  J— the 

voice  is  known 

First  from  all  else,  and  swiftest  to  restore 
Love's  buried  images,  with  one  low  tone 
Thatstrikeslike  lightning,  when  the  cheek 

is  faded,  [o'ershaded, 

And  the  brow  heavily  with  thought 
And  all  the  brightness  from  the  aspect 

sjone  I— 


THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY. 


297 


Upon  my  breast  she  sank,  when  doubt 

was  fled, 

Weeping  as  those  may  weep  that  meet  in 
woe  and  dread. 

XXVHl. 

For  there  we  might  not  rest.    Alas  I  to 

leave 
Those  native  towers,  and  know  that  they 

must  fall 

By  slow  decay,  and  none  remain  to  grieve 
When  the  weeds  clustered  on  the  lonely 

wall! 
We  were  the  last — my  boy  and  I — the 

last 
Of  a  long  line  which  brightly  thence  had 

passed  I 

My  father  blessed  me  as  I  left  his  hall — 
With  his  deep  tones  and  sweet,  though 

full  of  years, 
He  blessed  me  there,  and  bathed  my  child's 

young  head  with  tears. 


I  had  brought  sorrow  on  his  grey  hairs 

down, 

And  cast  thedarkness  of  my  branded  name 
(For  so  ht  deemed  it)  on  the  clear  renown, 
My  own  ancestral  heritage  of  fame. 
And  yet  he  blessed  me  1 — Father  I  if  the 

dust 

Lie  on  those  lips  benign,  my  spirit's  trust 
Is  to  behold  thee  yet,  where  grief  and 

shame 
Dim  the  bright  day  no  more  ;  and  thou 

wilt  know 
rhat  not  through  guilt  thy  son  thus  bowed 

thine  age  with  woe  1 


And  thou,  my  Leonor  !  that  unrepining, 
If  sad  in  soul,  didst  quit  all  else  for  me, 
When  stars — the  stars  that  earliest  rise — 

are  shining, 
How    their   soft   glance   unseals   each 

thought  of  thee  I 
For  on  our  flight   they  smiled ;   their 

dewy  rays, 
Through  the  last  olives,  lit  thy  tearful 

gaze 
Back  to  the  home  we  never  more  might 

see ; 
So  passed  we  on,  like  earth's  first  exiles, 

turning 
Fond  looks  where  hung  the  sworS  above 

their  Eden  burning. 


It  was  a  woe  to  say,  "Farewell,  my 

Spain  I  [well  !"— 

The  sunny  and  the  vintage  land,  fare- 
I  could  have  died  upon  the  battle-plain 
For  thee,  my  country  I  but  I  might  not 

dwell  [s°ng 

In  thy  sweet  vales,  at  peace, — Thevoice  of 
Breathes,  with  the  myrtle  scent,  thy  hills 

along ; 
The  citron's  glow  is  caught  from  shade 

and  dell :  [so'd 

But  what  are  these  I — upon  thy  flowery 

I  might   not    kneel,   and    pour  my  free 

thoughts  out  to  God  1 


O'er  the  blue  deep  I  fled,  the  chainless 

deep  I— 
Strange  heart  of  man  1  that  even  'midst 

woe  swells  high, 
When  through  the  foam  he  sees  his  proud 

bark  sweep,  [sky  I 

Flinging  out  joyous  gleams  to  wave  and 
Yes  I  it  swells  high,  whate'er  he  leaves 

behind ; 

His  spirit  rises  with  the  rising  wind  ; 
For,  wedded  to  the  far  futurity, 
On,  on,  it  bears  him  ever,  and  the  main 
Seems  rushing,  like  his  hope,  some  happiet 

shore  to  gain. 

XXXIII. 

Not  thus  is  woman.     Closely  her  still 

heart  [thing, 

Doth  twine  itself  with  even  each  lifeless 
Which,  long  remembered,  seemed  to  bear 

its  part  [ding, 

In  her  calm  joys.  For  ever  would  she 
A  brooding  dove,  to  that  sole  spot  of  earth 
Where  she  hath  loved,  and  given  her 

children  birth,  [may  Spring 

And  heard  their  first  sweet  voices.  There 

Array  no  path,  renew  no  flower,  no  leaf, 

But  hath  its  breath  of  home,  Us  claim  to 

farewell  grief. 

XXXIV. 

I  looked  on  Leonor,  —and  if  there  seemed 
A  cloud  of  more  than  pensiveness  to  ri.-.o 
In  the  faint  smiles  that  o'er  her  features 

gleamed, 

And  the  soft  darkness  of  her  serious  eyes, 
Misty  with  tender  gloom,  I  called  it 

nought  [thought 

But  the  fond  exile's  pang,  a  lingering 
Of  her.onm  vale,  with  all  its  melodies 


TEE  FOREST  SANCTUARY. 


And  living  light  of  streams.    Her  soul 

would  rest 

Beneath  your  shades,  I  said,  bowers  Of  the 
gorgeous  west  I 

XXXV. 

Oh  !  could  we  live  in  visions  I  could  we 

bold 

Delusion  faster,  longer,  to  our  breast, 
When  it  shuts  from  us,  with  its  mantle's 

fold,  [blest ! 

That  which  we  see  not,  and  are  therefore 
But  they,  our  loved  -and  loving,  they  to 

whom 
We  have  spread  out  our  souls  in  joy  and 

gloom,  [dressed, 

Their  looks  and  accents,  unto  ours  ad- 
Have  been  a  language  of  familiar  tone 
Too  long  to  breathe,  at  last,  dark  sayings 

and  unknown. 

xxxvi. 

I  told  my  heart,  'twas  but  the  exile's  woe 
Which  pressed  on  that  sweet  bosom  ; — I 

deceived  [low, 

My  heart  but  half.:—*  whisper,  faint  and 
Haunting  it  ever,  and  at  times  believed, 
Spoke  of  some  deeper  cause.    How  oft 

we  seem 
Like  those  that  dream,  «nd  know  the 

while  they  dream, 

'Midst  the  soft  falls  of  airy  voices  grieved, 
And  troubled,   while  bright   phantoms 

round  them  play,  [away  ! 

By  a  dim  sense  that  all  will  float  and  fade 

XXXVII. 

Yet,  as  if  chasing  joy,  I  wooed  the  breeze 
To  speed  me  onward  with  the  wings  of 

morn.,— 

Oh  !  far  amidst  the  solitary  seas, 
Which  were  not  made  for  man,  what  man 

hath  borne, 
Answering  their  moan  with  his! — what 

thou  didst  bear,  „         [care 

My  lost  and  loveliest !  while  that  secret 
Grew  terror,  and  thy  gentle  spirit,  worn 
By  its  dull  brooding  weight,  gave  way  at 

last,  [cast ! 

beholding  me  as  one  from  hope  for  ever 

xxxvni. 

For  unto  thee,  as  through  all  change  re- 
vealed 
Mine  inward  being  lay.    In  other  eyes 


I  had  to  bow  me  yet,  and  malce  a  shield, 
To  fence  my  burning  bosom,  of  disguise ; 
By  the  still  hope  sustained,  we  long  to 

win  [within, 

Some  sanctuary,  whose  green  retreats 
My  thoughts  unfettered  to  their  source 

might  rise,  - 1 

Like  songs  and  scents  of  morn.— But 

thou  didst  look  *>  i 

Through  all  my  soul,  and  thine  even  unto 

fainting  shook. 

XXXIX. 

Fallen,  fallen,  I  seemed— yet,  oh!  not 

less  beloved,  1 

Though  from  thy  love  was  plucked  the 

early  pride, 

And  harshly,  by  a  gloomy  faith  reproved, 
And  seared  with  shame  ! — though  each 

young  flower  had  died,  [the  less 

There  was  the  root, — strong,  living,  not 
That  all  it  yielded  now  was  bitterness ; 
Yet  still  such  love  as  quits  not  misery'; 

side 

Nor  drops  from  guilt  its  ivy-like  embrace, 
Nor  turns  away  from  death's  its  pale  heroi« 

face. 

XL. 

Yes  I   thou  hadst  followed  me  through 

fear  and  flight ! 
Thou  wouldst  have  followed  had   my 

pathway  led  [light 

Even  to  the  scaffold;  had  the  flashing 
Of  the  raised  axe  made  strong  men  shrink 

with  dread, 
Thou,    'midst  the   hush  of  thousands, 

wouldst  have  been 

With  thy  clasped  hands  beside  me  kneel- 
ing seen,  [head — 
And  meekly  bowing  to  the  shame  thy 
The  shame  I — oh  1  making  beautiful  to 

view 
The  might  of  human  love— fair  thing  I  so 

bravely  true  t~ 

XLI. 

There  was  thine  agony — to  love  so  well 
Where  fear  made  love  life's  chastener. — 

Heretofore  [fell, 

Whate'er  of  earth's  disquiet  round  thee 
Thy  soul,  o'erpassing  its  dim  bounds, 

could  soar  [speak 

Away  to  sunshine,  and  thy  clear  eye 
Most  of  the  skies  when  grief  most 

touched  thy  cheek. 
Now,  that  far  brightness  faded  !  never 

more 


THE  FOREST  9ANQTUABY. 


299 


Couldst  thou  lift   heavenwards  for  its 

hope  thy  heart, 

Since  at  Heaven's  gate  it  seemed  that  thou 
and  I  must  part. 

XLII. 

Alas  t  and  life  hath  moments  when  a 

glance  — 
(If  thought  to  sudden  watchfulness  be 

stirred,) 

A  flush  —  a  fading  of  the  cheek  perchance, 
A  word  —  less,  less  —  the  cadence  of  a  word, 
Lets  in  our  gaze  the  mind's  dim  veil  be- 

neath, 
Thence  to  bring  haply  knowledge  fraught 

with  death  !  — 
Even  thus,  what  never  from  thy  lip  was 

heard 
Broke  on  my  soul.  —  I  knew  that  in  thy 

sight 
I  stood  —  howe'er  beloved  —  a  recreant  from 

the  light  J 


Thy  sad,  sweet  hymn,  at  eve,  the  seas 

along,  — 
Oh  1   the  deep  soul  it  breathed  !  —  the 

love,  the  woe,  [song. 

The  fervour,  poured  in  that  full  gush  of 
As  it  went  floating  through  the  fiery  glow 
Of  the  rich  sunset  1  —  bringing  thoughts 

of  Spain, 

With  all  her  vesper  -voices,  o'er  the  main, 
Which  seemed  responsive  in  its  murmur- 

ing flow.  — 

"  Ave  sanctissima  /"  —  how  oft  that  lay 
Hath  melted  from  my  heart  the  martyr- 

strength  away  I 

Ave  sanctissima  ! 
Tis  nightfall  on  the  sea  ; 

Ora  pro  nobis  I 
Our  souls  rise  to  Thee  I 

Watch  us,  while  shadows  lie 
O'er  the  dim  water  spread  ; 

Hear  the  heart's  lonely  sigh,— 
Thine,  too,  hath  bled  I 

.Thou  that  hast  looked  on  death, 
Aid  us  when  death  is  near  I 

Whisper  of  Heaven  to  faith  ; 
Sweet  Mother,  hear  I 

Ora  pro  nobis  ! 
The  wave  must  rock  our  sleep. 

Ora,  Mater,  ora  1 
Thou  star  of  the  deep  I 


XLIV. 

"  Ora  pro  nobis.  Mater  /"— What  a  spell 
Was  in  those  notes,  with  day's  last  glory 

dying 
On  the  flushed  waters  I — seemed  they 

not  to  swell 
From  the  far  dust,  wherein   my  sires 

were  lying  [clear 

With  crucifix  and  sword  ? — Oh  !  yet  how 
Comes  their  reproachful    sweetness  to 

mine  ear !  [plying, 

"  Ora  /" — with  all  the  purple  waves  re- 
All  my  youth's  visio.S   rising    in    the 

strain — 
And  I  had  thought  it  much  to  bear  the 

rack  arid  chain  1 

SLV. 

Torture  1— the  sorrow  of  affection's  eye, 
Fixing  its  meekness  on  the  spirit's  core, 
Deeper,  and  teaching  more  of  agony, 
May  pierce  than  many  swords ! — and 

this  I  bore  [striven 

With  a  mute  pang.    Since  I  had  vainly 
From  its  free  springs  to  pour  th'e  truth  of 

Heaven 

Into  thy  trembling  soul,  my  Leonor ! 
Silence  rose  up  where  hearts  no  hope 

could  share : — 
Alas!  for  those  r hat  love,  and  may  not 

blend  in  prayer  I 

XLVI. 

We  could,  not  pray  together  'midst  the 

deep,  flay, 

Which,  like  a  floor  of  sapphire,  round  u? 
Through  days  of  splendour,  nights  too 

bright  for  sleep,  [way 

Soft,  solemn,  holy ! — We  were  on  our 
Unto  the  mighty  Cordillera-land, 
With  men  whom  tales  of.  that  world's 

golden  strand 
Had  lured  to  leave  their  vines. — Oh!  who 

shall  say 
What  thoughts  rose  in  us,   when  the 

tropic  sky  [alchemy? 

Touched  all  its  molten  seas  with  sunset's 

XLVII. 

Thoughts    i:o    more    mingled ! — Thcr 

came  night — th'  intense 
Dark  blue — the  burning  stars  I— 1  sa* 

thet  shine 

Once  more,  in  thy  serene  magnificence, 
O  Southern  Cross  t  as  when  thy  radian 

sign 


900 


THE  FOREST  8ANOTUAEY. 


First  drew  my  gaze  of  youth.— No,  not 

as  then ; 

I  had  been  stricken  by  the  darts  of  men 
Since  those  fresh  days ;  and  now  thy 

light  divine 
Looked  on  mine  anguish,  while  within 

me  strove 
The  still  small  voice  against  the  might  ol 

suffering  love. 

XLvm. 

But  thou,  the  clear,  the  glorious  I  trtou 

wert  pouring 

Brilliance  and  joy  upon  the  crystal  wave, 
While  she  that  met  thy  ray  with  eyes 

adoring,  [grave  I — 

Stood  in  the  lengthening  shadow  of  the 
Alas  I    I    watched    her   dark   religious 

glance, 
As   it  still   sought   thee   through   the 

Heaven's  expanse, 
Bright  Cross! — and    knew  not  that  I 

watched  what  gave  [be — 

But  passing  lustre — shrouded  soon  to 

A  soft  light  found  no  more — no  more  on 

earth  or  sea  I 

XLIX. 

I  knew  not  all — yet  something  of  unrest 
Sat  on  my  heart.   Wake,  ocean  wind  !  I 

said  ; 

Waft  us  to  land,  in  -mafy  freshness  drest, 
Where  through  rich  ciouds  of  foliage  o'er 

her  head,  [by, 

Sweet  day  may  steal,  and  rills  unseen  go 
Like  singing  voices,  and  the  green  earth 

lie  [tread  ! — 

Starry  with  flowers,  beneath  her  graceful 
But  the  calm  bound  us  'midst  the  glassy 

main ; 
Ne'er  was  her  step  to  bend  earth's-  living 

flowers  again. 

L. 

Yes  1  as  if  Heaven  upon  the  waves  were 
sleeping,  [lay, 

Vexing  my  soul  with  quiet,  there  they 
All  moveless,  through  their  blue  trans- 
parence keeping  [day  1 
The  shadows  of  our  sails,  from  day  to 
While  she — oh  I  strongest  is  the  strong 
heart's  woe —                           Ls'ow — 
And  yet  I  live  1  I  feel  the  sunshine's 
And  I  am  he  that  looked,  and  saw  decay 
Steal  o'er  the  fair  of  earth,  th'  adored  too 

much  I — 

ft  is  a  fearful  thing  to  love  what  death  may 
touch. 


LI, 

A  fearful  thing  that  love  and  death  may 

dwell  [I— 

In  the  same  world  ! — She  faded  on — and 
Blind  to  the  last,  there  needed  death  to 

t£U  [die! 

My  trusting  soul  that  she  could  fade  to 
Yet,  ere  she  parted,  I  had  marked  a 

change, — 
But  it  breathed  hope — 'twas  beautiful, 

though  strange : 

Something  of  gladness  in  the  melody 
Of  her  low  voice,  and  in  her  words  a 

flight  [bright ! 

Of    airy   thought— alas  I    too    perilously 

LIT. 

And  a  clear  sparkle  in  her  glance,  yet 

wild,  [gaze 

And  quick,  and  eager,  like  the  flashing 
Of  some  all-wondering  and  awakening 

child,  [surveys. — 

That   first    the    glories    of    the   earth 
How  could  it  thus  deceive  me  ? — She  had 

worn  | 

Around  her,  like  the  dewy  mists  of  mom, 
A  pensive  tenderness  through  happiest. 

days ; 
And  a  soft  world  of  dreams  had  seemed 

to  lie 
Still  in  her  dark,  and  deep,  and  spiritual 

eye. 

LIII. 

And  I  could  hope  in  that  strange  fire  I — 
she  died,  [mien  !— 

She   died,   with    all  its   lustre  on  her 

The  day  was  melting  from  the  waters 
wide, 

And  through  its  long  bright  hours  her 
thoughts  had  been, 

It  seemed,  with  restless  and  unwonted 
yearning,  [turning ; 

To  Spain's  blue  skies  and  dark  sierras 

For  her  fond  words  were  all  of  vintage- 
scene,  [breath ': — 

And  flowering  myrtle,  and  sweet'  citron '3 
Oh  1  with  what  vivid  hues  life  comes  back 
oft  on  death  1 

LTV. 

And  from  her  lips  the  mountain-songs  of 

old, 

Inwild,  faint  snatches,  fitfully  had  sprung ; 
Songs  of  Ihe  orange  bower,  the  Moorish 

hold, 
The  "  Rio  verde"  on  her  soul  that  hung, 


THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY. 


301 


And  thence  flowed  forth. — But  now  the 

sun  was  low  ; 

And  watching  by  my  side  its  last  red  glow, 
That  ever  stills  the  heart,  once  more  she 
sung  [sound 

Her  own  soft,  "  Ora,  Mater  f" — and  the 
*  Vas  even  like  love's  farewell — so  mourn- 
fully profound. 


The  boy  had  dropped  to  slumber  at  our 
feet ;—  [rest 

"  And  I  have  lulled  him  to  his  smiling 

Once  more  !'/  she  said  :— I  raised  Dim- 
it  was  sweet, 

Yet  sad,  to  see  the  perfect  calm  which 
blessed 

His  look  that  hour ; — for  now  her  voice 
grew  weak ; 

And  on  the  flowery  crimson  of  his  cheek, 

With  her  white  lips  a  long,  long  kiss  she 
pressed, 

Yet  light,  to  wake  him  not.— Then  sank 

her  head 

Ygainst  my  bursting  heart : — What  did  I 
clasp  ? — the  dead  I 

LVI. 

I  called — to  call  what  answers  not  our 

cries, 

By  that  we  loved  to  stand  unseen,  unheard , 
With  the  loud  passion  of  our  tears  and 

sighs 
To  see  but  some  cold  glistening  ringlet 

stirred,  [gaze, 

And  in  the  qaenched  eye's  fixedness  to 
All  vainly  searching  for  the  parted  rays  ; 
This  is  what  waits  us  1 — Dead  1 — with 

that  chill  word  [pour 

To  link  our  bosom-names  1 — For  this  we 

Our  souls  upon  the  dust — nor  tremble  to 

adore  I 

LVH. 

But  the  true  parting  came  I — I  looked  my 

last  [face  • 

On  the  sad  beauty  of  that  slumbering 
How  could  I  think  the  lovely  spirit 

passed,  [trace  ? 

Which   there  had  left  so  tenderly  its 
Yet  a  dim  awfulness  was  on  the  brow — 
No  I  not  like  sleep  to  look  upon  art  Thou, 
Death,   Death  I — She   lay,  a  thing  for 

earth's  embrace, 
To   cover   with    spring-wreaths.      For 

earth's  ?  the  wave — 
Dial  gives  the  bier  no  flowera — makes  moan 

above  her  jjrave  I 


On  the  mid-seas  a  knell ! — for  man  was 

there,  [dead ! 

Anguish  and  love — the  mourner  with  his 
A  long,  low-rolling  knell — a  voice  of 

prayer —  [spread, — 

Dark  glassy  wateis,  like  a  desert 
And  the  pale-shining  Southern  Cross  on 

high, 

Its  faint  stars  fading  from  a  solemn  5ky, 
Where  mighty  clouds  before  the  dawn 

grew  red  : — 
Were  these  things  round  me  ?    Such  o'er 

memory  sweep 
Wildly  when  aught  brings  back  that  burial 

of  the  deep. 

LIX. 

Then  the  broad,  lonely  sunrise ! — and 

the  plash  [head 

Into  the  sounding  waves ! — around  her 
They  parted,  with  a  glancing  moment's 

flash, 
Then  shut— and  all  was  still.    And  now 

thy  bed 

Is  of  their  secrets,  gentlest  Leonor ! 
Once  fairest  of  young  brides  1 — and  nevei 

more,  [shed 

Loved  as  thou  wert,  may  "human  tear  be 
Above  thy  rest  1 — No  mark  the  proud 

seas  keep, 
To  show  where  he  that  wept  may  pause 

again  to  weep. 

LX. 

So  the  depths  took  thee  !— Oh !  the  sullen 

sense 

Of  desolation  in  that  hour  compressed  ! 
Dust  going  down,  a  speck,  amidst  th' 

immense  [breast 

And  gloomy  waters,  leaving  on  their 
The  trace  a  weed  might  leave  there  ! — 

Dust  ?— the  thing 

Which  to  the  heart  was  as  a  living  sprirtg 
Of  joy,  with  fearfulness  of  love  possessed, 
Thus  sinking !  —  Love,  joy,  fear,  all 

crushed  to  this — 
And  the  wide  Heaven  so  far— so  fathomless 

th'  abyss  ! 

LXI. 

Where  the  line  sounds  not,  where  the 

wrecks  lie  low, 
What  shall  wake  thence  the  dead?— 

Blest,  'blest  are  they  [know 

That  earth  to  earth  intrust ;  for  they  may 
And  tend  the  dwelling  whence  the  Slum- 

berer's  clay 


302 


THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY. 


Shall  rise  at  last;  and  bid  the  young 
flowers  bloom,  [tomb ; 

That  waft  a  breath  of  hope  around  the 
And  kneel  upon  the  dewy  turf  to  pray  1 
But  thou,  what  cave  hath  dimly  cham- 
bered thee  f 

Vain  dreams  !— oh  !  art  thou  not  where 
there  is  no  more  sea  ? 

LXII. 

The  wind  rose  free  and  singing  :— when 

for  ever, 

O'er  that  sole  spot  of  all  thewatery  plain, 
I  could  Jhave  bent  my  sight  with  fond 

endeavour 
Down,  where  its  treasure  was,  its  glance 

to  strain ; 
Then  rose  the  reckless  wind!— Before 

our  prow 

The  white  foam  flashed — ay,  joyously—- 
and thou 

Wert  left  with,  all  the  solitary  main 
Around  thee — and  thy  beauty  in  my 

heart, 
And  thy  meek  sorrowing  love — oh  I'  where 

could  that  depart!1 

LXIII. 

I  will  not  speak  of  woe  ;  I  may  not  tell — 
Friend  tells  not  such  to  friend — the 

thoughts  which  rent 

My  fainting  spirit,  when  its  wild  farewell 
Across  the  billows  to  thy  grave  was  sent, 
Thou,  there  most  lonely  !— He  that  sits 

above, 

In  His  calm  glory,  will  forgive  the  love 
His  creatures  bear  each,  other,  even  if 

blent 

With  a  vain  worship ;  for  its.  close  is  dim 
Ever  with  grief,  which  leads  the  wrung 

soul  back.  to.  Him  1. 

LXIV. 

And  with  a.  milder  pang  if  now  1  bear 
To  think  of  thee  in  thy  forsaken  rest, 
If  from  my  heart  be  lifted;  the  despair, 
The  sharp  remorse  with  healing  influence 

pressed, 

If  the  soft  eyes  that  visit  me  in  sleep 
Look  not  reproach,   though  still   they 

seem  to  weep ; 

It  is  that  He  my  sacrifice  hath  blessed, . 
And  filled  my  bosom,  through  its  inmost 

cell, 
With  a  deep  chastening  sense  that  all  at 

last  is  well, 


Yes  !  thou  art  now— oh !  wherefore  doth 

the  thought  [hair, 

Of  the  wave  dashing  o'er  thy  long  bright 
The  sea-weed  into  its  dark  tresses 

wrought,  [fair  1 

The  sand  thy  pillow— thou  that  wert  so 
Come  o'er  me  still  ?— Earth,  earth !— it 

is  the  hold  [mould  ! 

Earth  ever  keeps   on   that  of  earthly 

But  thou  art  breathing  now  in  purer  air, 

I  well  believe,  and  freed  from  all  of  error, 

Which  blighted  here;the  root  of  thy  sweet 

life  with  terror. 

LXVI. 

And  if  the  love,,  whichi  hew  was  passing 

light, 
Went  with  what  died  not— oh- 1  that /Aw 

we  knew, 
But  this !— that  through  the  silence  of 

the  night,  [true! 

Some  voice,  of  all  the  lost  ones  and  the 
Would  speak,  and  say,  if  in  their  far 

repose,  [those 

We  are  yet  aught  of  what  we  were  to 
We  call  the  dead.!— their  passionate 

adieu,,  [trust 

Was  it  but  breath,  to  perish  ?— Holier 

Be  mine  !— thy  love  w  there,  but  purified 

from  dust  1 

LXVII. 

A  thing  all  heavenly  1 — cleared  from  that 

which  hung  [mind  ! 

As  a  dim  cloud  between  us,  hearl  and 
Loosed  from  the  fear,  the  grief,  whose 

tendrils  flung  [twined. 

A  chain,  so  darkly  with  its  growth  en- 
This.  is  my  hope  1 — though  when  the 

sunset  fades,  [shades, 

When  forests  rock  the  midnight  on  their 
When  tones  of  wail  are  in  the  rising  wind, 
Across,  my  spirit  some  faint  doubt  may 

sigh; 
For  the  strong  hours  «(*#  away  this  frail 

mortality ! 

LXVIII. 

We  havftbeen  wanderers  since  those  days 

of  woe-, 
Thy  boy,  and,  1 1— As  wild  birds  tend 

their  young, 

So  have  L  tended.him — my  bounding  roe  I 
The  high  Peruvian  solitudes,  among ; 
And  olet-  the  Andes'  torrents  borne  ha 

form, 


TEE  FOREST  8ANOTUA&Y. 


303 


tVhere  our  frail  bridge  hath  quivered 

'midst  the  storm.  [rung, 

But  there  the  war-notes  of  my  country 

And,  smitten  deep  of  Heaven  and  man, 

Tried 

To  hide  in  shades  unpierced  a  marked  and 
weary  head. 

LXIX. 

But  he  went  on  in  gladness— that  fair 

child! 

Save  when  a*  times  his  bright  eye  seemed 

to  dream,  [smiled, 

And  his  young  lips;  which  then  no  longer 

Asked  of  his  mother ! — That  was  but  a 

gleam  [play 

Of  Memory,  fleeting  fast ; — and  then  his 

Through  the  wide  Llanos  *  cheered  again 

our  way, 

And  by  the  mighty  Oronoco  stream, 
On  whose  lone  margin  we  have  heard  at 

morn, 

From  the  mysterious  rocks,  the  sunrise- 
music  borne. 

LXX. 

So  like  a  spirit's  voice  I  a  harping  tone. 
Lovely,  yet  ominous  to  mortal  ear, 
Such  as  might  reach  us  from  a  world 

unknown, 
Troubling  man's  heart  with  thrills  of  joy 

and  fear  I 
Twas  sweet  1 — yet  those  deep  southern 

shades  oppressed 
My  soul  with  stillness,  like  the  calms 

that  rest 

On  melancholy  waves  :    I  sighed  to  hear 
Once  more  earth's  breezy  sounds,  her 

foliage  fanned, 
And  turned  to  seek  the  wilds  of.  the  red 

hunter's  land. 

UOBb 

And  we  have  won  a  bower  of  refuge- now, 
In  this  fresh  waste,  the  breath  of  whose 

repose  [brow, 

Hath  cooled,  like  dew,  the  fever  of  mj 
And  whose  green  oaks  and  cedars  round 

me  close 

As  temple-walls  and  pillars,  that  exclude 
Earth's  haunted  dreams  from  their  free 

solitude ; 


•   Savannah*,    or    great    pialitv    of    Scutn 
Ameno*. 


All,  save  the  image  and  the  thought  ol 

those 

Before  us  gone ;  our  loved  of  early  years, 
Jone  where  affection's  cup  hath  lost  the 

taste  of  tears. 

LXXII. 

I  see  a  star— eve's  first-born !— in  whose 

train 
Past  scenes,  words,  looks,  come  back.. 

The  arrowy  spire 

Of  the  lone  cypress,  as  of  wood-girt  fane, 
Rests  dark  and  still  amidst  a  heaven  of 

fire ;  [lake 

The  pine  gives  forth  its  odours,  and  the 
Gleams  like  one  ruby,  and  the  soft  winds 

wake, 

Till  every  string  of  nature's  solemn  lyre 
Is  touched  to  answer ;  its  most  secret 

tone 
Drawn  from    each    tree,  for   each  hath 

whispers  all  its  own. 

tXXIII. 

And  hark  I  another  murmur  on  the  air, 
Not  of  the  hidden   rills,  or  quivering 

shades  1 —  [bear, 

That  is  the  cataract's,  which  the  breezes 
Filling  the  leafy  twilight  of  the  glades 
With  'hollow  surge-like  sounds,  as  from 

the  bed 
Of  the  blue,  mournful  seas,  that  keep 

the  dead :  [vades 

But  they  are  far  !— the  low  sun  here  per- 

Dim  forest-arches,  bathing  with  red  gold 

Their  stems,  till  each  is  made  a  marvel  to 

behold— 

LXXIV. 

Gorgeous,  yet  full  of  gloom  1— In  such 

an  hour, 

The  Vesper-melody-of  dying  bells 
Wanders  through  Spain,  from  each  grey 

convent's  tower 

O'ershining.nvers  poured,  and  olive-dells, 
By  every  peasant  heard,  and  muleteer, 
And  hamlet,  round  my  home : — and  I 

am  here,  [wells, 

Living  again  through  all  my  life's  fare- 
In  these  vast  woods,  where  farewell  ne'er 

was  spoken,  [unbroken  ! 

And  sole  I  lift  to  Heaven  a  sad  heart— yet 

LXXV. 

In  suck  an  hour  are  told  the  hermit  E 

beads ;  [floats  by, 

With  the  white  sat)  the  seaman's  hymn 


304 


LAYS  OF  MAN?  LANDS. 


Peace  be  with  all !   whate'er  their  vary- 
ing creeds,  [high  1 
With  all  that  send  up  holy  thoughts  on 
Come  to  me,  boy  ! — by  Guadalquiver's 

vines, 

By  every  stream  of  Spain,  as  day  declines, 
Man's  prayers  are  mingled  in  the  rosy 

sky, — 
We,  too,  will  pray ;   nor  yet  unheard, 

my  child  I 

Of  him  whose  voice  wt  hear  at  eve  amidst 
the  wild. 

LXXVI. 

At  eve?— oh  1  through  all  Hours  I— From 
dark  dreams  oft 


Awakening,  I  look  forth.'and  learn  the 

might  | 

Of  solitude,  while  thou  art  breathing  soft, 
And  low,  my  loved  one  1  on  the  breast 

of  night :  ( 

I  look  forth  on  the  stars— the  shadowy 

sleep  | 

Gf  forests — ard  the  lake,  whose  gloomy 

deep  ! 

Sends  up  red  sparkles  to  the  fire-flies' 

light.  ( 

A  lonely  world !— even  fearful  to  man's 

thought,  | 

But  for  His  presence  felt,  whom  here  mv 

soul  hath  sought. 


1826. 

LA  YS  OF  MANY  LANDS. 


commeruorati' 

was  suggested  by  Herder's  "  Stimmen  uer  rumcr  m  i^ieufm;    mi 
however,  different,  as  the  poems  in  his  collection  are  cliiefly  translations. 

MOORISH  BRIDAL  SONG 

["It  is  a  custom  among  the  Moors,  that  a  female  who  dies  unmarried  is  clothed  for  Interment 
in  wedding  apparel,  and  the  bridal-song  is  iung  over  her  remains  before  they  are  borne  from  hor 
home." — See  the  Narrative  of  a  Ten  Years'  Residence  in  Tripoli,  by  the  Sater-in-lciv  oj  Ifr, 

THE  citron-groves  their  fruit  and  floweis  were  strewing 
Around  a  Moorish  palace,  while  the  sigh 
Of  low  sweet  summer  winds  the  branches  wooing 
With  music  through  their  shadowy  bowers  went  by ; 
Music  and  voices,  from  the  marble  halls 
Through  the  leaves  gleaming,  and  the  fountain-falls. 

A  song  of  joy,  a  bridal  song  came  swelling 
To  blend  with  fragrance  in  those  southern  shades, 
And  told  of  feaa*s  within  the  stately  dwelling, 
Bright  lamps,  and  dancing  steps,  and  gem-crowned  maids ; 
And  thus  it  flowed  : — yet  something  in  the  lay 
Belonged  to  sadness,  as  it  died  away. 

"  The  bride  comes  forth  1  her  tears  no  more  are  falling 
To  leave  the  chamber  of  her  infant  years  ; 
Kind  voices  from  a  distant  home  are  calling  ; 
She  comes  like  day-spring— she  hath  done  with  tears  -• 
Now  must  her  dark  eye  shine  on  other  flowers, 
Her  soft  smile  gladden 'other  hearts  than  ours  1 — 

Poor  the  rich  odours  round  ! 


LAYS  OF  MANY  LANDS.  505 

"  We  haste  1  the  chosen  and  the  lovely  bringing  f 
Love  still  goes  with  her  from  her  place  of  birth  ; 
Deep,  silent  joy  within  her  soul  is  springing. 
Though  in  her  glance  the  light  no  more  is  mirth  ! 
Her  beauty  leaves  us  in  its  rosy  years  ; 
Her  sisters  weep — but  she  hath  done  with  tears  I— 

Now  may  the  timbrel  sound  I* 

Know'st  thou  for  whom  they  sang  the  bridal  numbers  *— 
One  whose  rich  tresses  were  to  wave  no  more  ! 
One  whose  pale  cheek  soft  winds,  nor  gentle  slumbers, 
Nor  Love's  own  sigh,  to  rose-tints  might  restore  I 
Her  graceful  ringlets  o'er  a  bier  were  spread. 
Weep  for  the  young,  the  beautiful,— the  dead  I 


THE  BIRD'S  RELEASE. 

{The' Indians  of  Bengal  and  of  the  coast  of  Malabar  bring  cages  filled  with  birds  to  the  graves  o( 
tholr  friends,  over  which  they  set  the  birds  at  liberty.  This  custom  is  alluded  to  in  the  descripucm 
of  Virginia's  funeral. — See  Paul. and  Virginia.} 

Go  forth  1  for  she  is  gone  1 
With  the  golden  light  of  her  wavy  hair, 
She  is  gone  to  the  fields  of  the  viewless  air ; 

She  hath  left  her  dwelling  lone  t 

Her  voice  hath  passed  away ! 
It  hath  passed  away  like  a  summer  breeze, 
When  it  leaves  the  hills  for  the  far  blue  seas, 

Where  we  may  not  trace  its  way. 

Go  forth,  and -like  her  be  free  ! 
With  thy  radiant  wing,  and  thy  glancing  eye- 
Thou  hast  all  the  range  of  the  sunny  sky, 

And  what  is  our  grief  to  thee  ? 

Is  it  aught  e'en  to  her  we  mourn  e 
Doth  she  look  on  the  tears  by  her  kindred  shed? 
Doth  she  rest  with  the  flowers  o'er  her  gentle  head. 

Or  float,  on  the  light  wind  borne  ? 

We  know  not — but  she  is  gone  ! 
Her  step  from  the  dance,  her  voice  from  the  song, 
And  the  smile  of  her  eye  from  the  festal  throng ; 

She  bath  left  her  dwelling  lone  ! 

When  the  waves  at  sunset  shine, 
We  may  hear  thy  voice  amidst  .thousands  more, 
In  the  scented  woods  of  our  glowing  shore ; 

But  we  shall  not  know  'tis  thine  I 

Even  so  with  the  loved  one  flown  1 
Her  smile  on  the  starlight  may  wander  by. 
Her  breath  may  be  near  in  the  wind's  low  sigh, 

Around  us — but  all  unknown. 

Go  forth,  we  have  loosed  thy  chain  ! 
We  may  deck  thy  cage  with  the  richest  flowers 
Which  the  bright  day  rears  in  our  eastern  bowe-s  ; 

But  thou  wilt  not  be  lured  again. 


806 


LAYS  OF  MANY  LAUDS. 


Even  thus  may  the  summer  pour 
All  fragrant  things  on  the  land's  green  breast, 
And  the  glorious  earth  like  a  bride  be  dressed, 

But  it  wins  her  back  no  more  I 


THE  SWORD  OF  THE  TOM  a 

A  NORTHERN  LEGEND. 

'  [The  idea  of  this  ballad  Is  taken  from  a  scene 
in  "  Starkother,"  a  tragedy  by  the  Danish  poet 
Oehlenschlager.  The  sepulchral  fire  here  alluded 
10,  and  supposed  to  guard  the  ashes  of  deceased 
heroes,  is  frequently  mentioned  in  the  Northern 
Sagas.  Severe  sufferings  to  the  departed  spirit 
were  supposed  by  the  Scandinavian  my ihologists 
to  be  the  consequence  of  any  profanation  of  the 
sepulchre.— See  Oehltnschl&gtt'i  Plays,] 

11  VOICE  of  the  gifted  elder  time ! 

Voice  of  the  charm  and  the  Runic  rhyme ! 

Speak !  from  the  shades  and  the  depths 

disclose, 

How  Sigurd  may  vanquish  his  mortal,  foes ; 
Voice  of  the  buried  past  I 

41  Voice  of  the  grave  1  'tis  the  mighty  hour, 
When  Night  with  her  stars  and  dreams 

hath  power. 
And  my  step  hath  been  soundless  on  the 

snows, 

And  the  spell  I  have  sung  hath  laid  repose 
On  the  billow  and  the  blast." 

Then  the  torrents  of  the  North, 
And  the  forest  pines  were  still, 
While  a  hollow  chant  came  forth 
From  the  dark  sepulchral  hill. 

"  There  shines  no  sun  'midst  the  hidden 
dead,  [tread ; 

But  where  the  day  looks  not  the  brave  may 

There  is  heard  no  song,  and  no  mead  is 
poured,  [board, 

But  the  warrior  may  come  to  the  silent 
In  the  shadow  of  the  night 

' '  There  is  laid  a  sword  in  thy  father's  tomb, 

And  its  edge  is  fraught  with  thy  foeman's 

doom ;  [deep, 

But  soft  be  thy  step  through  the  silence 

And  move  not  the  urn  in  the  house  of  sleep, 

For  the  viewless  have  fearful  might  I ' 

Then  died  the  solemn  lay, 
As  a  trumpet's  music  dies, 
By  the  night-wind  borne  away 
Through  the  wild  and  stormy  skies. 


The  fir-trees  rocked  to  the  wailing  blast,     . 
As   on   through   the   forest    the   warrior 
passed, —  [old. 

Through  the  forest  of  Odin,  the  dim  and 
The  dark  place  of  visions  and  legends,  told- 
By  the  fires  of  Northern  pine. 

The  fir-trees  rocked,  and  the  frozen  ground 

Gave  back  to  his  footstep  a  hollow  sound  ; 

And  it  seemed  that  the  depths  of  those 

awful  shades,  [arcades 

From   the   dreary  gloom  of   their  lor« 

Gave  warning  with  voice  and  sign. 

But  the  wind  strange  magic  knows, 
To  call  wild  shape  and  tone 
From  the  grey  wood's  tossing  boughs, 
When  Night  is  on  her  throne. 

The  pines  dosed  o'er  him  with  deepei 

gloom, 

As  he  took  the  path  to  the  monarch's  tomb; 
The  Pole-star  shone,  and  the  heavens  were 

bright  [light, 

With  the  arrowy  streams  of  the  Northern 
But  his  road  through  dimness  lay  ! 

He  passed,  in  the  heart  of  that  ancient 
wood,  [blood  ; 

The  dark  shrine  stained  with  the  victim's 

Nor  paused,  till  the  rock  where  a  vaulted 
bed 

Had  been  hewn  of  old  for  the  kingly  dead, 
Arose  on  his  midnight  way. 

Then  first  a  moment's  chill 
Went  shuddering  through  his  breast, 
And  the  steel-clad  man  stood  stil' 
Before  that  place  of  rest. 

But  he  crossed  at  length,  with  a  deep- 
drawn  breath, 

The  threshold-floor  of  the  hall  of  Death, 
And  looked  on  the  pale  mysterious  fire 
Which  gleamed  from  the  urn  of  his  warrior- 
sire, 
With  a  strange  and  solemn  light. 

Then  darkly  the  words  of  the  boding  strain 
Like  an  omen  rose  on  hi*  soul  again,- 


LATB  OF  MANY  LANDS 


307 


••  Soft  be  thy  step  through  the  silence  deep, 

And  move  not  the  urn  in  the  house  of  sleep, 

For  the  viewless  have  fearful  might  1" 

But  the  gleaming  sword  and  shield 
Of  many  a  battle-day 
Hung  o'er  that  urn,  revealed 
By  the  tomb-fire's  waveless  ray. 

With  a  faded  wreath  of  oak-leaves  bound, 

They  hung  o'er  thedust  of  the  far-renowned, 

Whom  the  bright  Valkyriur's  warning  voice 

Had  called  to  the  banquet  where  gods 

rejoice, 

And  the  rich  mead  flows  in  light 

With  a  beating  heart  his  son  drew  near, 
And  still  rang  the  verse  in  his  thrilling  ear, — 
1 '  Soft  be  thy  step  through  the  silence  deep, 
And  move  not  the  urn  in  the  house  of  sleep, 
For  the  viewless  have  fearful  might  1" 

And  many  a  Saga's  rhyme, 
And  legend  of  the  grave, 
That  shadowy  scene  and  time 
Called  back  to  daunt  the  brave. 

But  he  raised  his  arm— and  the  flame  grew 

dim, 
And  the  sword  in  its  light  seemed  to  wave 

and  swim, 
And  his  faltering  hand  could  not  grasp  it 

well—  fell 

From  the  pale  oak-wreath,  with  a  clash  it 
Through  the  chamber  of  the  dead ! , 

The  deep  tomb  rang  with  the  heavy  sound, 

And  the  urn  lay  •  shivered  in  fragments 

round ;  [fire, 

And  a  rush,  as  of  tempests,  quenched  the 

And  the  scattered  dust  of  bis  warlike  sire 

Was  strewn  on  the  Champion's  head. 

One  moment — and  all  was  still 
In  the  slumberer's  ancient  hall, 
When  the  rock  had  Ceased  to  thrill 
With  the  mighty  weapon's  fall. 

The  stars  were  just  fading,  one  by  one, 
The  clouds  were  just  tinged  by  the  early  sun, 
When  there  streamed  through  the  cavern  a 

torch's  flame, 

And  the  brother  of  Sigurd  the  valiant  came 
To  seek  him  in  the  tomb. 

Stretched  on  bis  shield,  like  the  steel-girt 

slain, 
By  moonlight  seen  on  the  battle-plain, 


In  a  speechless  trance  lay  the  warrior  there, 

But  he  wildly  woke  when  the  torch's  glare 

Burst  on  him  through  the  gloom. 

"The  morning  wind  blows  free, 
And  the  hour  of  chase  is  near : 
Come  forth,  come  forth,  with  me  1 
What  dost  thou,  Sigurd,  here?" 

"  I  have  put  out  the  holy  sepulchral  fire, 
I  have  scattered  the  dust  of  my  warrior-sire ! 
It  bums  on  my  head,  and  it  weighs  down 
my  heart ;  [their  part 

But  the  winds  shall  not  wander  without 
To  strew  o'er  the  restless  deep  I 

"  In  the  mantle  of  death  he  was  here  with 

me  now, — 
There.was  wrath  in  his  eye,  there  was  gloom 

on  his  brow ; 

And  his  cold,  still  glance  on.my  spirit  fell 

With  an  icy  ray  and  a  withering  spell— 

Oh  I  chill  is  the  house  of  sleep  1" 

"The  morning  wind  blows  free, 
And  the  reddening  sun  shines  clear ; 
Come  forth,  come  forth,  with  me  1 
It  is  dark  and  fearful  here  1" 

"  He  is  there,  he  is  there,  with  his  shadowy 
frown  1  crown. — 

But  gone  from  his  head  is  the  kingly 

The  crown  from  bis  head,  and  the  spear 
from  his  hand,—  [land 

They  have  chased  him  far  from  the  glorious 
Where  the  feast  of  the  gods  is  spread  I 

"  He  must  go  forth  alone  on  his  phantom 
steed,  [speed ; 

He  must  ride  o'er  the  grave-hills  with  stormy 
His  place  is  no  longer  at  Odin's  board, 
He  is  driven  from  Valhalla  without  his 
sword  1 
But  the  slayer  shall  avenge  the  dead  I" 

That  sword  its  fame  had  won 
By  the  fall  of  many  a  crest, 
But  its  fiercest  work  was  done 
In  the  tomb,  on  Sigurd's  breast  1 


VALKYRIUR  SONG. 

[The  Valkyriur,  or  Fatal  Sisters  of  Northern 
mythology,  were  supposed  to  single  out  the 
warriors  who  were  to  die  in  battle,  and  be  re- 
aetveU  into  the  halls  of  Odin. 

When  a  Northern  chief  fell  gloriously  IB  wnt, 


3C3 


LAYS  OF  MANY  LANDB. 


his  obsequies  were  honoured  with  »J1  possible 
magnificence.  His  arms,  gold  and  diver,  war- 
horse,  domestic  attendants,  and  whatever  else 
he  held  most  dear,  were  placed  with  him  on  the 
pile.  His  dependents  and  friends  frequently 
made  it  a  point  of  honour  to  die  with  their 
leader,  in  order  to  attend  on.  his  shade  in  Val- 
halla, or  the  Palace  of  Odin.  And  lastly,  his 
wife  was  generally  consumed  with  him  on  the 
same  pile. — See  MALLKT'S  Northtnt  Anti- 
quities, HERBERT'S  Helga-,  &c.] 

"Tremblingly    flashed   th'   inconstant  meteor 

light, 

Showing  thin  forms  like  virgins  of  this  rarth, 
Save  that  all  signs  of  human  joy  or  grief, 
The  flush  of  passion,  smile  or  tear,  had  seemed 
On  the  fixed  brightness  of  each  dazzling  cheek 
Strange  and  unnatural." — MiLMAN. 

THE  Sea-king  woke   from   the  troubled 

sleep 

Of  a  vision-haunted  night, 
And  he  looked  from  his  bark  o'er   the 

gloomy  deep, 

And  counted  the  streaks  of  light ; 
For  the  red  sun's  earliest  ray 
Was  to  rouse  his  bands  that  day, 
To  the  stormy  joy  of  fight  1 

But  the  dreams  of  rest  were  still  on  earth, 

And  the  silent  stars  on  high, 
And  there  waved  not  the  smoke  of  one 

cabin  hearth 

'Midst  the  quiet  of  the  sky  ; 
And  along  the  twilight  bay, 
In  their  sleep  the  hamlets  lay, 
For  they  knew  not  the  Norse  were  nigh  I 

The  Sea-king  looked  o'er  the   brooding 

wave ; 

He  turned  to  the  dusky  shore, 
And  there  seemed,  through  the  arch  of  a 

tide-worn  cave, 

A  gleam,  as  of  snow,  to  pour ; 
And  forth,  in  watery  light, 
Moved  phantoms,  dimly  white, 
Which  the  garb  of  woman  bore. 

Slowly  they  moved  to  the  billow  side ; 

And  the  forms,  as  they  grew  more  clear, 
Seemed  each  on  a  tall,  pale  steed  to  ride, 
And  a  shadowy  crest  to  rear, 
And  to  beckon  with  faint  hand, 
From  the  dark  and  rocky  strand, 
And  to  point  a  gleaming  spear. 

Then  a  stillness  on  his  spirit  fell, 

Before  th'  unearthly  train, 
For  he  knew  Valhalla's  daughters  well, 

The  Choosers  of  flie  slain ! 


And  a  sudden  rising  breeze 
Bore,  across  the  moaning  seas, 
To  his  ear  their  thrilling  strain. 

"  There  are  songs  in  Odin's  Hall, 
For  the  brave,  ere  night  to  fall ! 
Doth  the  great  sun  hide  his  rayji— 
He  must  bring  a  wrathful  day  I 
Sleeps'the  falchion  in  its  sheath  ? — 
Swords  must  do  the  work  of  death  I 
Regner !— Sea-king  1 — tket  we  call  I— 
There  is  joy  in  Odin's  Hall. 

"  At  the  feast  and  in  the  song, 
Thou  shall  be  remembered  long  I 
By  the  green  isles  of  the  flood 
Thou  hast  left  thy  track  in  blood  I 
On  the  earth  and  on  the  sea, 
There  are  those  will  speak  of  thee  t 
'Tis  enough, — the  war-gods  call, — 
There  is  mead  in  Odin's  Hall  1 

"  Regner !  tell  thy  fair-haired  bride 
She  must  slumber  at  thy  side ! 
Tell  the  brother  of  thy  breast. 
Even  for  him  thy  grave  hath  rest ! 
Tell  the  raven  steed  which  bore  thee, 
When  the  wild  wolf  fled  before  thee, 
He  too  with  his  lord  must  fall, — 
There  is  room  in  Odin's  Hall  1 

"  Lo  !  the  mighty  sun  looks  forth— 
Arm  1  thou  leader  of  the  north  I 
Lo  1  the  mists  of  twilight  fly, — 
We  must  vanish,  thou  must  die  I 
By  the  sword  and  by  the  spear. 
By  the  hand  that  knows  not  fear, 
Sea-Icing  1  nobly  shalt  thou  fall  1 — 
-There  is  joy  in  Odin's  Hall  I" 

There  was  arming  heard  on  land  and  wave, 

When  afar  the  sunlight  spread, 
And  the  phantom  forms  of  the  tide-worn 

cave 

With  the  mists  of  morning  fled. 
But  at  eve.  the  kingly  hand 
Of  the  battle-axe  and  brand, 
Lay  cold  on  a  pile  of  dead  1 


THE  CAVERN  OF  THE  THREE 
TELLS. 

SWISS  TRADITION. 

[The  three  founders  of  the  Helvetic  Con- 
federacy are  thought  to  sleep  in  a  cavern  neai 
the  Lake  of  Lucerne.  The  herdsmen  call  then* 
the  Three  Tells ;  and  sav  that  they  lie  there. 


IA7S  OF  MANT  LANDS. 


309 


In  their  antique  garb,  In  quiet  slumber ;  and  |  They  shall  wake  beside  their  Forest-sea, 


when  Switzerland  is  In  her  utmost  need,  they 
will  awaken  and  regain  the  liberties  of  the  land. 
—See  Quarterly  Review,  No.  44.] 

[The  Grutli,  where  the  confederates  held  their 
nightly  meetings,  is  a  meadow  on  the  shore  of 
the  Lake  of  Lucerne,  or  Lake  of  the  Forest- 
cantons,  here  called  the  Forest-sea.] 

OH  1  enter  not  yon  shadowy  cave, 
Seek  not  the  bright  spars  there, 
Though  the  whispering  pines  that  o'er  it 

wave, 
With  freshness  fill  the  air : 

For  there  the  Patriot  Three, 
In  the  garb  of  old  arrayed, 
By  their  native  Forest-sea 
On  a  rocky  couch  are  laid. 

The  Patriot  Three  that  met  of  yore, 

Beneath  the  midnight  sky, 
And  leagued  their  hearts  on  the  Grutli  shore, 
ID  the  name  of  liberty  1 
Now  silently  they  sleep 

Amidst  the  hills  they  freed ; 
But  their  rest  is  only  deep, 
Till  their  country's  hour  of  need. 

They  start  not  at  the  hunter's  call, 

Nor  the  Lammer-geyer's  cry, 
Nor  the  rush  of  a  sudden  torrent's  fall,* 
Nor  the  Lauwine  thundering  by  I 
And  the  Alpine  herdsman's  lay, 
To  a  Switzer's  heart  so  dear  ! 
On  the  wild  wind  floats  away. 
No  more  for  them  to  hear.' 

Hut  when  the  battle-horn  is  blown 

Till  the  Schreckhom's  peaks  reply, 
When  the  Jungfrau's  cliffs  send  back  the 

tone 

Through  their  eagles'  lonely  sky ; 
When  spear-heads  light  the  lakes, 
When  trumpets  loose  the  snows, 
When  the  rushing  war-steed  shakes 
The  glacier's  mute  repose  ; 

When  Uri's  beechen  woods  wave  ted 

In  the  burning  hamlet's  light  ;— 
Then  from  the  cavern  of  the  dead, 
Shall  the  sleepers  wake  in  might ! 

With  a  leap,  like  Tell's  proud  leap, 
When  away  the  helm  he  flung,* 
And  boldly  up  the  steep 
From -the  flashing  billow  sprung  \ 


"  The  point  of  rock  on  which  Tell  leaped  from 
the  boat  of  Oessler  Is  marked  by  a  chapel,  and 

called  the  Tclltnstruttf. 


In  the  ancient  garb  they  wore 
When  they  linked  the  hands  that  made  us 

free, 

On  the  Grtitli's  moonlight  shore  : 
And  their  voices  shall  be  heard, 

And  be  answered  with  a  shout, 
Till  the  echoing  Alps  are  stirred, 
And  the  signal-fires  blaze  out. 

And  the  land  shall  see  such  deeds  again 

As  those  of  that  proud  day, 
When  Winkelried,  on  Sernpach's  plain, 
Through  the  serried  spears  made  way  ; 
And  when  the  rocks  came  down 
On  the  dark  Morgarten  dell, 
And    the    crowned  casques,*  o'er- 

thrown, 
Before  our  fathers  fell ! 

For  the  Kiihreihen's  t  notes  must  never  sound 

In  a  land  that  wears  the  chain, 
And  the  vines  on  freedom's  holy  ground 
Untrampled  must  remain  1 

And  the  yellow  harvests  wave  ' 

For  no  stranger's  hand  to  reap, 
While  within  their  silent  cave 
The  men  of  Grutli  sleep  1 


SWISS  SONG, 

ON  THE  ANNIVERSARY  OP  AN  ANCIENT  BATTLE. 

[The  Swiss,  even  to  our  days,  have  continued 
to  celebrate  the  anniversaries  of  their  ancient 
battles  with  much  solemnity  :  assembling  in  the 
open  air  on  the  fields  where  their  ancestors 
fought,  to  hear  thanksgivings  offered  up  by  the 
priests,  and  the  names  of  all  who  shared  In  the 
glory  of  the  day  enumerated.  They  afterwards 
walk  In  procession  to  chapels,  always  erected 
in  the  vicinity  of  such  scenes,  where  masses  are 
sung  for  the  souls  of  the  departed.  —  See 
PLANTA'S  History  ofthi  Helvetic  Confederacy.  ] 

LOOK  on  the  white  Alps  round  I 

If  yet  they  gird  a  land 
Where  freedom's  voice  and  step  are  found, 

Forget  ye  not  the  band, 
The  faithful  band,  our  sires,  who  fell 
Here,  in  the  narrow  battle  dell  I 

If  yet,  the  wilds  among, 
Our  silent  hearts  may  bum, 


*  Cnrwne d  Htlmttt ,  as  a  distinction  of  rani: 
are  mentioned  in  Simond's  "  Switzerland." 
t  The   Kflhreihen,  the  celebrated  Xatt*  <&•< 


310 


LAY8  OF  MA2W  LANDti. 


When  the  deep  mountain-horn  hath  rung, 

And  home  our  steps  may  turn, — 
Home ! — home  I — if  still  that  name  be  dear, 
Praise  to  the  men  who  perished  here  t 

Look  on  the  white  Alps  round  ! 

Up  to  their  shining  snows 
That  day  the  stormy  rolling  sound. 

The  sound  of  battle,  rose  ! 
Their  caves  prolonged  the  trumpet's  blast, 
Their  dark  pines  trembled  as  it  passed  I 

They  saw  the  princely  crest, 

They  saw  the  knightly  spear, 
The  banner  and  the  mail-clad  breast, 
Borne  down,  and  trampled  here  ! 
They  saw — and  glorying  there  they  stand, 
Eternal  records  to  the  land  1 

Praise  to  the  mountain-born, 
The  brethren  of  the  glen  I 
By  them  no  steel  array  was  worn. 

They  stood  as  peasant-men  ! 
They  left  the  vineyard  and  the  field 
To  break  an  empire's  lance  and  shield  I 

Look  on  the  white  Alps  round  I 

If  yet,  along  their  steeps, 
Our  children's  fearless  feet  may  bound, 

Free  as  the,  chamois  leaps : 
Teach  them  in  song  to  bless  the  band 
Amidst  whose  mossy  graves  we  stand  I 

If,  by  the  wood-fire's  blaze, 

When  winter  stars  gleam  cold, 
The  glorious  tales  of  elder  days 

May  proudly  yet  be  told, 
Forget  not  then  the  shepherd  race, 
Who  made  the  hearth  a  holy  place  I 

Ix>ok  on  the  white  Alps  round  I 

If  yet  the  Sabbath-bell 
Comeso'erthem  with  a  gladdening  sound, 

Think  on  the  battle  dell  J 
For  blood  first  bathed  its  flowery  sod, 
That  chainless  hearts  might  worship  God  I 


THE  MESSENGER  BIRD. 

[Some  of  the  native  Brazilians  pay  great  vene- 
ration to  a  certain  bird  that  sings  mournfully  in 
the  night-time.  They  say  it  Is  a  messenger  which 
their  deceased  friends  and  relations  have  sent, 
and  that  it  brings  them  news  from  the  other 
world. — See  PICART*S  Certmonui  and  Religious 
Custom.} 

THOU  art  come  from  the  spirits'  land,  thou 

bird  ! 
Thou  art  come  from  the  spiritr'  land  I 


Through  the  dark  pine  grove  let  thy  vole? 

be  heard, 
And  tell  of  the  shadowy  band  I 

We  know  that  the  bowers  are  green-  and  fak 
In  the  light  of  that  summer  shore. 

And  we  know  that  the  friends  we  have  lost 

are  there, 
They  are  there— and  they  weep  no  more ! 

And  we  know  they  have  quenched  tfceii 

. "  fever's  thirst 

From  the  Fountain  of  Youth  ere  now,* 
For  there  must  the  stream  in  its  freshness 

burst, 
Which  none  may  find  below ! 

And  we  know  that  they  will  not  be  lured  to 

earth 

From  the  land  of  deathless  flowers, 
By  the  feast,  or  the  dance,  or  the  song  of 

mirth, 
Though  their  hearts  were  once  with  ours : 

Though  they  sat  with  us  by  the  night-fire'j 
blaze, 

And  bent  with  us  the  bow, 
And  heard  the  tales  of  our  father's  days. 

Which  are  told  to  others  now  I 

But  tell  us,  thou  bird  of  the  solemn  strain  I 
Can  those  who  have  loved  forget? 

We  call — and  they  answer  not  again — 
Do  they  love— do  they  loye  us  yet  ? 

Doth  the  warrior  think  of  his  brother  there, 
And  the  father  of  his  child  ?  [share 

And  the  chief,  of  those  that  were  wont  to 
His  wanderings  through  the  wild  ? 

We  call  them  far  through  the  silent  night, 
And  they  speak  not  from  cave  or  hill ; 

We  know,  thou  bird!  that  their  land  is 

bright, 
But  say,  do  they  love  there  still? 


THE  STRANGER  IN  LOUISIANA. 

[An  early  traveller  mentions  a  people  on  the 
banks  of  the  Mississippi  who  burst  into  tears  at 
the  sight  of  a  stranger.  The  reason  of  this  is, 
that  they  fancy  their  deceased  friends  and  rela- 
tions to  be  only  gone  on  a  journey,  and  being  in 


*  An  expedition  was  actually  undertaken  by 
Juan  Ponce  de  Leon,  .in  the  sixteenth  century, 
with  the  view  of  discovering  a  wonderful  foun- 
tain, believed  by  the  natives  of  Puerto  Rico  to 
spring  in  one  of  the  Lucayo  Isles,  and  to  possess 
the  virtue  of  restoring  youth  to  all  who  bathed 
In  Its  waters. — See  ROBERTSON'S  History  qf 
AtMtric*. 


LAYS  OF  MANY  LANDS. 


311 


constant  expectation  of  their  return,  look  for 
them  vainly  amongst  these  foreign  travellers.— 
PICART'S  Ceremonies  anil  Religious  Custom.] 

["  J'ai  passe  moi-meme("  says  Chateaubriand, 
In  his  "  Souvenirs  d'Ame'rique,"  "  chez  uue  peu- 
plade  Iiidienne  qui  se  prenait  a  pleurer  &  la  vue 
d'un  voyageur,  parce  qu'il  lui  rappelait  des  amis 
partis  pour  la  Contre"e  des  Ames,  et  depuis  long- 
temps  en  voyage."} 

WE  saw  thee,  O  stranger,  and  wept ! 
We  looked  for  the  youth  of  the  sun  ny  glance, 
Whose  step  was  the  fleetest  in  chase  or 

dance ; 

The  light  of  his  eye  was  a  joy  to  see, 
The  path  of  his  arrows  a  storm  to  flee ! 
But  there  came  a  voice  from  a  distant  shore : 
He  was  called— he  is  found  'midst  his  tribe 
no  more  1  |  burn, 

He  is  not  in  his  place  when  the  night-fires 
But  we  look  for  him  still — he  will  yet  re- 
turn ! — 

His  brother  sat  with  a  drooping  brow 
(n  the  gloom  of  the  shadowing  cypress 
bough ;  [pine, 

We  roused  him — we  bade  him  no  longer 
For  we  heard  a  step — but  the  step  was  thine. 

We  saw  thee,  O  stranger,  and  wept  I 
We  looked  for  the  maid  of  the  mournful 

song—  [long  I 

Mournful,  though  sweet — she  hath  left  us 
We  told  her  the  youth  of  her  love  was  gone, 
And  she  went  forth  to  seek  him — she  passed 

alone ; 
We  hear  not  her  voice  when  the  woods  are 

still, 
From  the  bower  where  it  sang,  like  a  silvery 

rill. 

The  joy  of  her  sire  with  her  smile  is  fled, 
The  winter  is  white  on  his  lonely  head, 
He  hath  none  by  his  side  when  the  wilds 

we  track, 
He  hath  none  when  we  rest — yet  she  conies 

not  back  ! 

We  looked  for  her  eye  on  the  feast  to  shine, 
For  her  breezy  step — but  the  step  was  thine  1 

We  saw  thee,  O  stranger,' and  wept  I 
We  looked  for  the  chief  who  hath  left  the 

spear 

A  nd  the  bow  of  his  battles  forgotten  here  ! 
We  looked  for  the  hunter,  whose  bride's 

lament 

On  the  wind  of  the  forest  at  eve  is  sent : 
We    looked    for    the    first-born^,  whose 

mother's  cry 
Sounds  wild  and  shrill  -through  the  mid- 
night sky  1— 


Where  'are  they  ?— thou'rt  seeking  some 
distant  coast —  [lost  1 

Oh,  ask  of  them,  stranger !— send  back  the 
Tell  them  we  mourn  by  the  dark  blue 

streams, 

Tell  them  our  lives  but  of  them  are  dreams 
Tell  how  we  sat  in  the  gloom  to  pine, 
And  to  watch  for  a  step— but  the  step  was 
thine  1 


THE  ISLE  OF  FOUNTS. 

AN  INDIAN  TRADITION. 

["  The  River  St  Mary  has  its  source  from  a 
vast  lake  or  marsh,  which  lies  between  Flint  and 
Oakinulge  rivers,  and  occupies  a  space  of  near 
three  hundred  miles  in  circuit.  This  vast  accu- 
mulation of  waters,  in  the  wet  season,  appears 
as  a  lake,  and  contains  some  large  islands  or 
knolls  of  rich  high  land  ;  one  of  which  the 
present  generation  of  the  Creek  Indians  repre- 
sent to  be  a  most  blissful  spot  of  earth  ;  they  say 
it  is  inhabited  by  a  peculiar  race  of  Indians, 
whose  women  are  incomparably  beautiful.  They 
also  tell  you  that  this  terrestrial  paradise  has 
been  seen  by  some  of  their  enterprising  hunters, 
when  in  pursuit  of  game  ;  but  that  in  theii 
endeavours  to  approach  it,  they  were  involved 
in  perpetual  labyrinths,  and,  like  enchanted  land, 
still  as  they  imagined  they  had  just  gained  it, 
it  seemed  to  fly  before  them,  alternately  appear- 
ing and  disappearing.  They  resolved,  at  length, 
to  leave  the  delusive  pursuit,  and  to  return, 
which,  after  a  number  of  ''Sculties,  they  effec- 
ted. When  they  reported  heir  adventures  to 
their  countrymen,  the  young  warriors  were  in- 
flamed with  an  irresistible  desire  to  invade,  and 
make  a  conquest  of,  so  charming  a  country :  but 
all  their  attempts  have  hitherto  proved  abortive, 
never  having  been  able  again  to  find  that  en- 
chanting spot." — BAKTRAM'S  Travels  through 
North  and  South  Carolina.] 

[The  additional  circumstances  in  the  "  Isle  of 
Founts"  are  merely  imaginary.] 

SON  of  the  stranger !  wouldst  thou  take 

O'er  yon  blue  hills  thy  lonely  way, 
To  reach  the  still  and  shining  lake 
Along  whose  banks  the  west  wind? 

play  ? — 

Let  no  vain  dreams  thy  heart  beguile, 
Oh  I  seek  thou  not  the  Fountain  Isle  1 

Lull  but  the  mighty  Serpent  King,* 
'Midst  the  grey  rocks,  his  old  domain ; 

*  The  Cherokees  believe  that  the  recesses  01 
their  mountains,  overgrown  with  lofty  pines  and 
cedars,  and  covered  with  old  mossy  rocks,  are 
inhabited  by  the  kings  or  chiefs  of  the  rattle- 
snakes, whom  they  denominate  the  "  bright  old 
Inhabitant."." 


313 


LAYS  OF  MAb~Y  LANDS. 


Ward  but  the  cougar's  deadly  spring, — 
Thy  step  that  lake's  green  shore  may 

gain'; 

And  the  bright  Isle,  when  all  is  passed. 
Shall  vainly  meet  thine  eye  at  last  1 

Yes  I  there,  with  all  its  rainbow  streams, 

Clear  as  within  thine  arrow's  flight, 
The  Isle  of  Founts,  the  Isle  of  dreams, 
Floats  on  the  wave  in  golden  light ; 
And  lovely  will  the  shadows  be 
Of  groves  whose  fruit  is  not  for  thee  1 

And  breathings  from  their  sunny  flowers, 

Which  are  not  of  the  things  that  die, 
And  singing  voices  from  their  bowers, 
Shall  greet  thee  in  the  purple  sky ; 
Soft  voices,  e'en  like  those  that  dwell 
Far  in  the  green  reed's  hollow  cell. 

Or  hast  thou  heard  the  sounds  that  rise 
From  the  deep  chambers  of  the  earth  ? 
The  wild  and  wondrous  melodies 

To  which  the  ancient  rocks  gave  birth? 
Like  that  sweet  song  of  hidden  caves 
Shall  swell  those  wood-notes  o'er  the  waves. 

The  emerald  waves ! — they  take  their  hue 

And  image  from  that  sunbright  shore ; 

But  wouldst  thou  launch  thy  light  canoe, 

And  wouldst  thou  ply  thy  rapid  oar, 
Before  thee,  hadst  thou  morning's  speed, 
The  dreamy  land  should  still  recede  I 

Yet  on  the  breeze  thou  still  wouldst  hear 

The  music  of  its  flow'ry  shades, 
And  ever  should  the  sound  be  near 

Of  founts  that  ripple  through  its  glades ; 
The  squad,  and  sight,  and  flashing  ray 
Of  joyous  waters  in  their  play  1 

But  woe  for  him  who  sees  them  burst 
With  their  bright  spray-showers  to  the 

lake! 

Earth  has  no  spring  to  quench  the  thirst 
That  semblance  in  his  soul  shall  wake, 
For  ever  pouring  through  his  dreams 
The  gush  of  those  untasted  streams  I 

Bright,  bright  in  many  a  rocky  urn, 

The  waters  of  our  deserts  lie, 
Yet  at  their  source  his  up  shall  burn. 

Parched  with  the  fever's  agony ! 
From  the  blue  mountains  to  the  main, 
Our  thousand  floods  may  roll  in  vain. 

E'en  thus  our  hunters  came  of  yore 
Back    from    their   long    and    weary- 
quest: — 


Had  they  not  seen  th'  untrodden,  shore, 
And  could  they  'midst  our  wilds  find 

rest? 

The  lightning  of  their  glance  was  fled. 
They  dwelt  amongst  us  as  the  dead  1 

They  lay  beside  our  glittering  rills, 

With  visions  in  their  darkened  eye, 
Their  joy  was  not  amidst  the  hills, 

Where  elk  and  deer  before  us  fly ; 
Their  spears  upon  the  cedar  hung, 
Their  javelins  to  the  wind  were  flung. 

They  bent  no  more  the  forest-bow, 

They  armed  not  with  the  warrior  band, 
The  moons  waned  o'er  them  dim  and 

slow — 

They  left  us  for  the  spirits'  land  1 
Beneath  our  pines  yon  greensward  heap 
Shows  where  the  restless  found  their  sleep. 

Son  of  the  stranger  I  if  at  eve 

Silence  be  'midst  us  in  thy  place, 
Yet  go  not  where  the  mighty  leave 

The  strength  of  battle  and  of  chase  I 
Let  no  vain  dreams  thy  heart  beguile, 
Oh  1  seek  thou  not  the  Fountain  Isle  I 


THE  BENDED  BOW. 

[It  Is  supposed  that  war  was  anciently  pro- 
claimed in  Britain  by  sending  messengers  in 
different  direction*  through  the  land,  each  bear- 
ing a  bended  tew;  and  that  peace  was  in  like 
manner  announced  by  a  bow  unstrung,  and 
therefore  straight. — See  Tki  Cambrian  AnK- 
quititt.] 

THERE  was  heard  the  sound  of  a  coming 
foe,  [Bow, 

There  was  sent  through  Britain  a  Bended 

And  a  voice  was  poured  on  the  free  winds 
far, 

As  the  land  rose  up  at  the  sign  of  war. 

"  Heard  ye  not  the  battle-horn? — 
Reaper  I  leave  thy  golden  corn  !-. 
Leave  it  for  the  birds  of  Heaven, 
Swords  must  flash ,  and  spears  be  riven  I 
Leave  it  for  the  winds  to  shed — 
Arm  I  ere  Britain's  turf  grow  red  I" 

And  the  reaper  armed,  like  a  freeman's  son, 
And  .the  Bended  Bow  and  the  voice  passed 


"  Hunter. !  leave  the  mountain-chase  I 
Take  the  falchion  from  its  place  I 


LAYS  OF  MANY  LANDS. 


313 


Let  the  wolf  go  free  to-day, 
Leave  him  for  a  nobler  prey ! 
Let  the  deer  ungalled  sweep  by, — 
Arm  thee  1  Britain's  foes  are  nigh  (' 

And  the  hunter  armed  ere  the  chase  was 

done,  [on. 

And  the  Bended  Bow  and  the  voice  passed 

"  Chieftain  !  quit  the  joyous  feast ! 
Stay  not  till  the  song  hath  ceased  :  . 
Though  the  mead  be  foaming  bright. 
Though  the  fires  give  ruddy  light, 
Leave  the  hearth,  and  leave  the  hall — 
Arm  thee  1  Britain's  foes  must  fall." 

And  the  chieftain  armed,  and  the  horn  was 

•  blown,  [on. 

And  the  Bended  Bow  and  the  voice  passed 

"  Prince !  thy  father's  deeds  are  told, 
In  the  bower  and  in  the  hold ! 
Where  the  goatherd's  lay  is  sung, 
Where  the  minstrel's  harp  is  strung  I—- 
Foes are  on  thy  native  sea — 
Give  our  bards  a  tale  of  thee !" 

And  the  prince  came  armed,  like  a  leader's 

son,  [oh. 

And  the  Bended  Bow  and  the  voice  passed 

"  Mother !  stay  thou  not  thy  boy ! 
He  must  learn  the  battle's  joy\. 
Sister  1  bring  the  sword  and  spear, 
Give  thy  brother  words  of  cheer  I 
Maiden  !  bid  thy  lover  part, 
Britain  calls  the  strong  in  heart  1" 

And  the  Bended  Bow  and  the  voice  passed 

on, 
And  the  bards  made  song  for  a  battle  won. 


HE  NEVER  SMILED  AGAIN. 

[It  Is  recorded  of  Henry  I. ,  that  sifter  the  death 
of  his  son,  Prince  William,  who  perished  in  a 
shipwreck  off  the  coast  of  Normandy,  he  was 
never  seen  to  smile.] 

THE  bark  that  held  a  prince  went  down, 

The  sweeping  waves  rolled  on ; 
And  what  was  England's  glorious  crown 

To  him  that  wept  a  son  ? 
He  lived— for  life  may  long  be  borne 

Ere  sorrow  break  its  chain ; — 
Why    comes    not    death   to   those   who 
mourn  ?— 

He  nevsr  smiled  again  I 


1  here  stood  proud  forms  around  his  throne- 
The  stately  and  the  brave, 

But  which  could  fill  the  place  of  one, 
That  one  beneath  the  wave? 

Before  him  passed  the  young  and  fair, 
In  pleasure's  reckless  train, 

But  seas  dashed  o'er  his  son's  bright  hair- 
He  never  smiled  again  t 

He  sat  where  festal  bowls  went  round  ; 

He  heard  the  minstrel  sing, 
He  saw  the  Tourney's  victor  crowned, 

Amidst  the  knightly  ring : 
A  murmur  of  the  restless  deep 

Was  blent  with  every  strain, 
A  voice  of  winds  that  would  not  sleep — 

He  never  smiled  again  I 

Hearts,  in  that  time;  closed  o'er  the  trace 

Of  vows  once  fondly 'poured, 
And  strangers  took  the  kinsman's  place 
.  At  many  a  joyous  boaro^ ; 
Graves,  which  true  love  had  bathed  with 
tears, 

Were  left  to  Heaven's  bright  rain, 
Fresh  hopes  were  born  for  other  years— 

He  never  smiled  again  I 


CCEUR  DE  LION  AT  THE  BIER 
OF  HIS  FATHER. 

[The  body  of  Henry  II.  lay  In  state  in  the 
abbey-church  of  Fontevraud,where  it  was  visited 
by  Richard  Coeur  de  Lion,  who,  on  beholding 
It,  was  struck  with  horror  and  remorse,  and 
bitterly  reproached  himself  for  that  rebellious 
conduct  which  had  been  the  means  of  bringing 
his  father  to  an  untimely  grave.] 

TORCHES  were  blazing  clear. 

Hymns  pealing  deep  and  slow, 
Where  a  king  lay  stately  on  his  bier, 

In  the  church  of  Fpntevraud» 
Banners  of  battle  o'er  him  hung, 

And  warriors  slept  beneath, 
And  light,  as  Noon's  broad  light,  was  flungj 

On  the  settled  face  of  death. 

On  the  settled  face  of  death 

A  strong  and  ruddy  glare, 
Though  dimmed  at  times  by  the  censer'l 
breath, 

Yet  it  fell  still  brightest  there : 
As  if  each  deeply-furrowed  trace 

Of  earthly  years  to  show,— 
Alas  t  that  sceptred  mortal's  race 

Had  surely  closed  in  \voe  I 


314 


LAYS  OF  MANY  LANDS. 


The  marble  floor  was  swept 

By  many  a  long  dark  stole, 
As  the  kneeling  priests  round  him  that  slept, 

Sang  mass  for  the  parted  soul ; 
And  solemn  were  the  strains  they  poured 

Through  the  stillness  of  the  night, 
With  the  cross  above,  and  the  crown  and 
sword, 

And  the  silent  king  in  sight. 

There  was  heard  a  heavy  clang, 

As  of  steel-girt  men  the  tread, 
And  the  tombs  and  the  hollow  pavement 
rang 

With  a  sounding  thrill  of  dread ; 
And  the  holy  chant  was  hushed  awhile, 

As  by  the  torch's  flame, 
A  gleam  of  arms,  up  the  sweeping  aisle, 

With  a  mail-clad  leader  came. 

He  came  with  haughty  look, 

An  eagle  glance  and  clear, 
But  his  proud  heart  through  its  breast-plate 
shook, 

When  he  stood  beside  the  bier  I 
He  stood  there  still  with  a  drooping  brow, 

And  clasped  hands  o'er  it  raised  ; — 
For  his  father  lay  before  him  low, 

It  was  Cceur-de-Liori  gazed  1 

And  silently  he  strove 

With  the  workings  of  his  breast,— 
But  there's  more  in  late  repentant  love 

Than  steel  may  keep  suppressed  1 
And  his  tears  brake  forth,  at  last,  like  rain — 

Men  held  their  breath  in  awe, 
For  his  face  was  seen  by  his  warrior-train, 

And  he  recked  not  that  they  saw. 

He  looked  upon  the  dead, 

And  sorrow  seemed  to  lie, 
A  weight  of  sorrow,  ev'n  like  lead, 

Pale  on  the  fast-shut  eye. 
He  stooped — and  kissed  the  frozen  cheek 

And  the  heavy  hand  of  clay. 
Till  bursting  words — yet  all  too  weak 

Gave  his  soul's  passion  way. 

"Oh,  father  1  is  it  vain, 

This  late  remorse  and  deep  ? 
Speak  to  me,  father !  once  again, 

I  weep — behold,  I  weep  1 
Alas  1  my  guilty  pride  and  ire  ! 

Were  but  this  work  undone, 
I  would  give  England's  crown,  my  sire, 

To  hear  thee  bless  thy  son. 


"Speak  to  me  1  mighty  grirf 

Ere  now  the  dust  hath  stirred  I 
Hear  me,  but  hear  me  1 — father,  chie£ 

My  king  1  I  must  be  heard  1 — 
Hushed,  hushed — how  is  it  that  I  call, 

And  that  thou  answerest  not  ? 
When  was  it  thus  ? — woe,  woe  for  aU 

The  love  my  soul  forgot  I 

"  Thy  silver  hairs  I  see, 

So  still,  so  sadly  bright  I 
And  father,  father  1  but  for  me, 

They  had  not  been  so  white  I 
I  bore  thee  down,  high  heart  I  at'last, 

No  longer  couldst  thou  strive ; — 
Ob  I  for  one  moment  of  the  past, 
'  To  kneel  and  say — '  forgive  f 

•  "Thou  wert  the  noblest  king, 
On  royal  throne  e'er  seen  ; 
And  thou  didst  wear,  in  knightly  ring, 

.  Of  all,  the  stateliest  mien  ; 
And  thou  didst  prove,  where  spears  are 

proved 

In  war,  the  bravest  heart — 
Oh !  ever  the  renowned  and  lovdd 
Thou  wert — and  there  thou  art  I 

"  Thou  that  my  boyhood's  guide 

Didst  take  fond  joy  to  be  1 — 
The  times  I've  sported  at  thy  side, 

And  climbed  thy  parent  knee ! 
And  there  before  the  blessed  shrine, 

My  sire  1  I  see  thee  lie, — 
How  will  that  sad  still  face  of  thine 

Look  on  me  till  I  die  1" 


THE  VASSAL'S  LAMENT  FOR  THE 
%  FALLEN  TREE. 

["  Here  (at  Brereton,  in  Cheshire)  is  one  thine 
incredibly  strange ;  but  attested,  as  I  raysefl 
have  beard,  by  many  persons,  and  commonly 
believed.  Before  any  heir  of  this  family  dies, 
there  are  seen,  in  a  lake  adjoining,  the  bodies  of 
trees  swimming  on  the  water  for  several  days." — 
CAMOSN'S  Brita?t*ia.} 

YES  1  I  have  seen  the  ancient  oak. 

On  the  dark,  deep  water  cast, 
And  it  was  not  felled  by  the  woodman's 

stroke. 

Or  the  rush  of  the  sweeping  blast ; 
For  the  axe  might  never  touch  that  tree, 
And  the  air  was  «*in  as  a  summer  sea. 

I  saw  it  fall,  as  falls  a  chief 
By  an  arrow  in  the  fight, 


LAYS  OF  MAN?  LANDS. 


315 


And  the  old  woods  shook,  to  their  loftiest 

leaf, 

At  the  crashing  of  its  might  I 
And  the  startled  deer  to  their  coverts  drew, 
'And  the  spray  of  the  lake  as  a  fountain's 
flew! 

Tis  fallen  !  but  think  thou  not  I  weep 

For  the  forest's  pride  o'erthrown ; 
An  old  man's  tears  lie  far  too  deep, 

To  be  poured  for  this  alone  1 
But  by  that  sign  too  well  I  know, 
That  a  youthful  head  must  soon  be  low  I 

A  youthful  head,  with  its  shining  hair, 

And  its  bright,  quick-flashing  eye — 

Well  may  I  weep  I  for  the  boy  is  fair, 

Too  fair  a  thing  to  die  I 
But  on  his  brow  the  mark  is  set — 
Oh  1  could  my  life  redeem  him  yet  I 

He  bounded  by  me  as  I  gazed 

Alone  on  the  fatal  sign, 
A.ndit  seemed  like  sunshine  when  he  raised 

'  His  joyous  glance  to  mine  I 
With  a  stag's  fleet  step  he  bounded  by, 
So  full  of  life — but  he  must  die  I 

He  must,  he  must !  in  that  deep  dell, 

By  that  dark  water's  side, 
'Tis  known  that  ne'er  a  proud  tree  fell, 

B-it  an  heir  of  his  fathers  died. 
And  he-^-there's  laughter  in  his  eye, 
Joy  in  his  voice — yet  he  must  die  1 

I've  borne  him  in  these  arms,  that  now 

Are  nerveless  and  unstrung ; 
And  must  I  see,  on  that  fair  brow, 

The  dust  untimely  flung  ? 
I  must  I — yon  green  oak,  branch  and  crest, 
Lies  floating  on  the  dark  lake's  breast ! 

The  noble  boy  I — how  proudly  sprung 

The  falcon  from  his  hand  1 
It  seemed  like  youth  to  see  him  young, 

A  flower  in  his  father's  land  1 
But  the  hour  of  the  knell  and .  the  dirge  is 
nigh,  [must  die, 

For  the  tree  hath  fallen,  and  the  flower 

Say  not  'tis  vain  1 — I  tell  thee,  some 

Are  warned  by  a  meteor's  light, 
Or  a  pale  bird,  flitting,  calls  them  home, 

Or  a  voice  on  the  winds  by  night ; 
And  they  must  go  ! — and  he  too,  he- 
Woe  for  the  fall  of  the  glorious  Tree  ! 


THE  WILD  HUNTSMAN, 

[It  is  a  popular  belief  in  the  Odenwald,  that  the 
passing  of  the  Wild  Huntsman  announces  the 
approach  of  war.  He  is  supposed  to  issue  with 
his  train  from  the  ruined  castle  of  Rodenstein, 
and  traverse  the  air  to  the  opposite  castle  oi 
Schnellerts.  It  is  confidentally  asserted  that  the 
sound  of  his  phantom  horses  and  hounds  was 
heard  by  the  Duke  of  Baden  before  the  com- 
mencement of  the  last  war  in  Germany.] 

THY  rest  was  deep  at  the  slumberer's  hour, 
If  thou  didst  not  hear  the  blast 

Of  the  savage  horn,  from  the  mountain 

tower, 
As  the  Wild  Night-Huntsman  passed, 

And  the  roar  of  the  stormy  chase  went  by, 
Through  the  dark  unquiet  sky  1 

The  stag  sprang  up  from  his  mossy  bed 
When  he  caught  the  piercing  sounds, 
And  the  oak-boughs  crashed  to  his  an  tiered 

head, 

As  he  flew  from  the  viewless  hounds ; 
And  the  falcon  soared  from  her  craggy 

height, 
Away  through  the  rushing  night  1 

The  banner  shook  on  its  ancient  hold, 
And  the  pine  in  its  desert  place, 

As  the  cloud  and  tempest  onward  rolled 
With  the  din  of  the  trampling  race  ; 

And  the  glens  were  filled  with  the  laugb 

arid  shout, 
And  the  bugle,  ringing  out ! 

From  the  chieftain's  hand  the  wine-cup  fell, 

At  the  castle's  festive  board, 
And  a  sudden  pause  came  o'er  the  swell 

Of  the  harp's  triumphal  chord  ; 
And  the  Minnesinger's  *  thrilling  lay 

In  the  hall  died  fast  away. 

The  convent's  chanted  rite  was  stayed, 

And  the  hermit  dropped  his  beads, 
And  a  trembling  ran  through  the  forest- 
shade, 

At  the  neigh  of  the  phantom  steeds, 
And  the  church-bells  pealed  to  the  rocking 

blast 
As  the  Wild  N!~ht-Huntsman  passed. 

The  storm  hath  swept  with  the  chase  away, 

There  is  stillness  in  the  sky, 
But  the  mother  looks  on  her  son  to-day, 

With  a  troubled  heart  and  eye, 

*  Minnesinger,  love-singer,— the  wandering 
minstrels  of  Germany  were  so  called  in  the 
u-j'.'.dle  ages. 


316 


LAYS  OF  MANY  LANDS. 


And  the  maiden's  brow  hath  a.  shade  of  care 
'Midst  the  gleam  of  her  golden  hair. 

The  Rhine  flows  bright,  but  its  waves  ere 
long 

Must  hear  a  voice  of  war, 
And  the  clash  of  spears  our  hills  among, 

And  a  trumpet  from  afar  ; 
And  the  brave  on  a  bloody  turf  must  lie, 

For  the  Huntsman,  hath  gone  by  1 


BRANDENBURGH  HARVEST- 
SONG.* 

PROM  THB  GERMAN  OF  LA  MOTTB  FOUQUB. 

THE  com,  in  golden  light, 
Waves  o'er  the  plain ; 

The  sickle's  gleam  is  bright  f 
Full  swells  the  grain. 

Now  send  we  far  around 

Our  harvest  lay ! — 
Alas  1  a  heavier  sound 

Comes  o'er  the  day  1 

On  every  breeze  a  knell 

The  hamlets  pour, — 
We  know  its  cause  too  well, 

S&e  is  no  more  I 

Earth  shrouds  with  burial  sod 
Her  soft  eye's  blue, — 

Now  o'er  the  gifts  of  God 
Fall  tears  like  dew  I 


THE  SHADE  OF  THESEUS. 

ANCIENT  GRKEK  TRADITION. 

KNOW  ye  not  when  our  dead 
From  sleep  to  battle  sprang ! — 

When  the  Persian  charger's  tread 
On  their  covering  greensward  rang! 


Por  tha  year  of  tbeQiKEnef  Prussia's  death- 


When  the  trampling  march  of  foes 
Had  crushed  our  vines  and  flowers, 

When  jewelled  crests  arose 
Through  the  holy  laurel  bowers ; 

When  banners  caught  the  breeze, 
When  helms  in  sunlight  shono. 

When  masts  were  on  the  seas, 
And  spears  on  Marathon. 

There  was  one,  a  leader  crowned, 

And  armed  for  Greece  that  day ; 
But  the  falchions  made  no  sound 

On  his  gleaming  war-array. 
In  the  battle's  front  he  stood, 

With  his  tall  and  shadowy  irest : 
But  the  arrows  drew  no  blood, 

Though  their  path  was  through  his  breas\ 

When  banners  caught  the  breeze, 
When  helms  in  sunlight  shone. 

When  masts  were  on  the  seas, 
And  spears  on  Marathon. 

His  sword  was  seen  to  flash 

Where  the  boldest  deeds  were  don* ; 
But  it  smote  without  a  clash ; 

The  stroke  was  heard  by  none  1 
His  voice  was  not  of  those 

That  swelled  the  rolling  blast, 
And  his  steps  fell  hushed  like  snows— 

'Twas  the  shade  of  Theseus  passed ! 

When  banners  caught  the  breeze, 
When  helms  in  sunlight  shone, 

When  masts  were  on  the  seas, 
And  spears  on  Marathon. 

Far  sweeping  througn  the  foe, 

With  a  fiery  charge  he  bore ; 
And  the  Mede  left  many  a  bow 

On  the  sounding  ocean-shore. 
And  the  foaming  waves  grew  red, 

And  the  «"k  were  crowded  fast, 
When  tbe  sons  of  Asia  fled, 

As  the  shade  of  Theseus  passed  I 

When  banners  caught  the  breeze,. 

When  helms  in  sunlight  shone, 
When  masts  were  on  the  seas, 

And  spears  oa  Marathon, 


317 


GREEK  FUNERAL  CHANT,  OR  MYRIOLOGUE. 

l~  Les  Chants  Funebres  par  lesquels  on  deplore  en  Grece  la  mort  de  ses  proches,  prennent  le 
ao:n  particulier  de  Myriologia,  cotnme  qui  dirait,  Discours  de  lamentation,  complaintes.  Un 
malade  vient-il  de  rendre  le  dernier  soupir,  sa  fenune,  sa  mere,  ses  filles,  ses  soeurs,  celles,  en  un 
mot,  de  ses  plus  proches  parentes  qui  sont  la,  lui  ferment  les  yeux  et  la  bouche,  en  epanchant  libre- 
ment,  chacune  selon  son  naturel  et  sa  mesure  de  tendresse  pour  le.deTunt,  la  douleur  qu'elle 
ressent  de  sa  perte.  Ce  premier  devoir  rempli,  elles  se  retirent  toutes  chez  une  de  leurs  parentes 
ou  de  leurs  amies.  Li  elles  changent  de  vetemeus,  s'habillent  de  blanc,  comme  pour  la  ce'rcmonie 
nuptiale,  ave_c  cette  difference,  qu 'elles  gardent  la  tete  nue,  les  cheveux  epars  et  pendants.  Ces 
apprets  termines,  les  parentes  reviennent  dans  leur  parure  de  deuil ;  toutes  se  rangent  en  cercle 
autour  du  mort,  et  leur  douleur  s'exhale  de  nouveau,  et,  comme  la  premiere  fois,  sans  regie  et  sans 
contrainte.  A  ces  plaintes  spontances  succedent  bicntdt  du  limentations  d'une  autre  espece  :  ce 
lont  les  Myriologues.  Ordinairement  c'est  la  plus  proche  parente  qui  prononce  le  sien  la  premiere  ; 
apres  elle  les  autres  parentes,  les  amies,  les  simples  voisines.  Les  Myriologues  sont  tpujpurs  com- 
poses et  chantes  par  les  femmes.  Us  sout  toujours  imrjrovise's,  toujours  en  vers,  et  toujours  chantft 
sur  un  air  qui  difiere  d'un  lieu  a  uu  autre,  mais  qui,  dans  un  lieu  donne1,  reste  invariableme.nl 
coaiacre"  a  ce  genre  de  poesie." — Chant:  Pofulaires  de  la  Grice  Modeme,  par  C.  FAURIKL.] 

A  WAIL  was  heard  around  the  bed,  the  death-bed  of  the  young, 
Amidst  her  tears  the  Funeral  Chant  a  mouniful  mother  sung. — 
'•  lanthis  1  dost  thou  sleep  ? — Thou  sleep 'st ! — but  this  is  not  the  rest, 
The  breathing  and  the  rosy  calm,  I  have  pillowed  on  my  breast  t 
1  lulled  tbee  not  to  this  repose,  lanthis  1  my  sweet  son  ! 
As  in  thy  glowing  childhood's  time  by  twilight  I  have  done  I— > 
How  is  it  that  I  bear  to  stand  and  look  upon  thee  now  ? 
And  that  I  die  not,  seeing  death  on  thy  pale  glorious  brow? 

**  I  look  upon  thee,  thou  that  wert  of  all  most  fair  and  brave  I 
I  see  thee  wearing  still  too  much  of  beauty  for  the  grave ! 
Though  mournfully  thy  smile  is  fixed,  and  heavily  thine  eye 
Hath  shut  above  the  falcon-glance  that  in  it  loved  to  lie ; 
And  fast  is  bound  the  springing  step,  that  seemed  on  breezes  borne, 
When  to  thy  couch  I  came  and  said, — '  Wake,  hunter,  wake  1  'tis  morn  I 
Yet  art  thou  lovely  still,  my  flower  I  untouched  by  slow  decay, — 
And  I,  the  withered  stem,  remain — I  would  that  grief  might  slay  1 

"  Oh  1  ever  when  I  met  thy  look,  I  knew  that  this  would  be  I 
I  knew  too  well  that  length  of  days  was  not  a  gift  for  thee  i 
I  saw  it  in  thy  kindling  cheek,  and  in  thy  bearing  high ; — 
A  voice  came  whispering  to  my  soul,  and  told  me  thou  must  die ! 
That  thou  must  die,  my  fearless  one !  where  swords  were  flashing  red.— 
Why  doth  a  mother  live  to  say — My  first-bom  and  my  dead  ? 
They  tell  me  of  thy  youthful  fame,  they  talk  of  victory  ''on— 
Speak  theu,  and  I  will  hear  !  my  child,  lanthis  1  my  sweet  son  I" 

A  wail  was  heard  around  the  bed,  the  death-bed  of  the  young, 
A  fair-haired  bride  the  Funeral  Chant  amidst  her  weeping  sung.— 
••  lanthis  1  lopk'st  thou  not  on  me  f— Can  love  indeed  be  fled? 
When  was  it  woe  before  to  gaze  upon  thy  stately  head  ? 
I  would  that  I  had  followed  thee,  lanthis,  my  beloved  I 
And  stood  as  woman  oft  hath  stood  where  faithful  hearts  are  proved  1— 
That  I  had  bound  a  breastplate  on,  and  battled  at  thy  side- 
It  would  have  been  a  blessed  thing  together  had  we  died  1 

"  But  where  was  I  when  thou  didst  fall  beneath  the  fatal  sword? 
Was  I  beside  the  sparkling  fount,  or  at  the  peaceful  board  ? 
Or  singing  some  sweet  song  of  old,  in  the  shadow  of  the  vine, 
Or  praying  to  the  saints  for  thee,  before  the  holy  shrine?  . 


S18  LAYS  OF  MANY  LANDS. 

And  thou  wert  lying  low  the  while,  the  life-drops  from  thy  heart 
Fast  gushing.like  a  mountain-spring  ! — and  couldst  thou  thus  depart  ? 
Couldst  thou  depart,  nor  on  my  lips  pour  out  thy  fleeting  breath  t — 
Oh  1  I  was  with  thee  but  in  joy,  that  should  have  been  in  death  t 

41  Yes  I  I  was  with  thee  when  the  dance  through  mazy  rings  was  led, 
And  when  the  lyre  and  voice  were  tuned,  and  when  the  feast  was  spread  f 
Bnt  not  where  noble  blood  flowed  forth,  where  sounding  javelins  flew — 
Why  did  I  hear  love's  first  sweet  words,  and  not  its  last  adieu  ? 
What  now  can  breathe  of  gladness  more,  what  scene,  what  hour,  what  tone? 
The  blue  skies  fade  with  all  their  lights,  they  fade,  since  thou  art  gone  I 
Even  that  must  leave  me,  that  still  face,  by  all  my  tears  unmoved- 
Take  me  from  this  dark  world  with  thee,  lanthis  t  my  beloved  t" 

A  wail  was  heard  around  the  bed,  the  death-bed  of  the  young, 
Amidst  her  tears  the  Funeral  Chant  a  mournful  sister  sung. 
41  lanthis  !  brother  of  my  soul  I — oh  !  where  are  now  the  days 
That  laughed  among  the  deep  green  hills,-  on  all  our  infant  plays  t 
When  we  two  sported  by  the  streams,  or  tracked  them  to  their  source, 
And  like  a  stag's,,  the  rocks  along,  was  thy  fleet,  fearless  course  I — 
I  see  the  pines  there  waving  yet,  I  see  the  rills  descend, 
I  see  thy  bounding  step  no  more — my  brother  and  my  friend  I— 

(l  I  come  with  flowers — for  Spring  is  come  1— lanthis  1  art  thou  here  9 
1  bring  the  garlands  she  hath  brought,  I  cast  them  on  thy  bier ! 
Thou  shouldst  be  crowned  with  victory's  crown— but  oh  1  more  meet  they  seem 
The  first  faint  violets  of  the  wood,  and  lilies  of  the  stream  ! 
More  meet  for  one  so  fondly  loved,  and  laid  thus  early  low — 
Alas  1  how  sadly  sleeps  thy  face  amidst  the  sunshine's  glow  . 
The  golden  glow  that  through  thy  heart  was  wont  such  joy  to  send,—- 
Woe  1  that  it  smiles,  and  not  for  thee  t — my  brother  and  my  friend  I" 


ANCIENT  GREEK  SONG  OF  EXILE. 

WHERE  is  the  summer,  with  her  golden  sun  ? — 
That  festal  glory  hath  not  passed  from  earth  : 
For  me  alone  the  laughing  day  is  done  ! 
.     Where  is  the  summer  with  her  voice  of  mirth  £— 
Far  in  my  own  bright  land  I 

Where  are  the  Fauns,  whose  flute-notes  breathe  and  die 
On  the  green  hills  ? — the  founts,  from  sparry  caves 

Through  the  wild  places  bearing  melody  ? 
The  reeds,  low  whispering  o'er  the  river  waves? — 
Far  in  ray  own  bright  land  1 

Where  are  the  temples,  through  the  dim  wood  shining, 
The  virgin-dances,  and  the  choral  strains  ? 

Where  the  sweet  sisters  of  my  youth,  entwining 
The  spring's  first  roses  for  their  sylvan  fanes  /— 
Far  in  my  own  bright  land  I 

Where  are  the  vineyards,  with  their  joyous  throngs, 
The  red  grapes  pressing  when  the  foliage  fades ! 

The  lyres,  the  wreaths,  the  lovely  Dorian  songs, 
And  the  pine  forests,  and  the  olive  shades  f— 
Far  in  my  own  bright  land  l 


LA78  OF^MANY  LANDS.  319 

Where  the  deep  haunted  grots,  the  laurel  bowers, 

The  Dryad's  footsteps,  and  the  minstrel's  dreams? 
Ob  1  that  my  life  were  as  a  southern  flower's  I 

I  might  not  languish  then  by  these  chill  streams, 
Far  from  my  own  bright  land  1 


THE  PARTING  SONG. 

[This  piece  is  founded  on  a  tale  related  by  Fauriel,  in  his  "  Chansons  Populalres  de  la  Greet 
Moderae,  and  accompanied  by  some  very  interesting  particulars  respecting  the  extempore  parting 
longs,  or  songs  of  expatriation,  as  he  informs  us  they  are  called,  in  which  the  modern  Greeks  an 
iccustoraed  to  pour  forth  their  feelings  on  bidding  farewell  to  their  country  and  friends.] 

A  YOUTH  went  forth  to  exile,  from  a  home 
Such  as  to  early  thought  gives  images, 
The  longest  treasured,  and  most  oft  recalled, 
And  brightest  kept,  of  love  1 — a  mountain  home, 
That,  with  the  murmur  of  its  rocking  pines 
And  sounding  waters,  first  in  childhood's  heart 
Wakes  the  deep  sense  of  nature  unto  joy, 
And  half  unconscious  prayer  ; — a  Grecian  home, 
With  the  transparence  of  blue  skies  o'erhung, 
And,  through  the  dimness  of  its  olive  shades, 
Catching  the  flash  of  fountains,  and  the  gleam 
Of  shining  pillars  from  the  fanes  of  old. 

And  this  was  what  he  left  I — Yet  many  leave 

Far  more  : — the  glistening  eye,  that  first  from  t  hairs 

Called  out  the  soul's  bright  smile  ;  the  gentle  hand, 

Which  through  the  sunshine  led  forth  infant  steps 

To  where  the  violets  lay  ;  the  tender  voice 

That  earliest  taught  them  what  deep  melody 

Lives  in  affection's  tones.     He  left  not  these. 

Happy  the  weeper,  that  but  weeps  to  part 

With  all  a  mother's  love  ! — A  bitterer  grief 

Was  his — To  part  unloved  I — of  her  unloved, 

That  should  have  breathed  upon  his  heart,  like  spring 

Fostering  its  young  faint  flowers  I 

Yet  had  he  friends, 

And  they  went  forth  to  cheer  h»m  on  his  way 
Unto  the  parting  spot ; — and  she  too  went, 
That  mother,  tearless  for  her  youngest-bom. 
The  parting  spot  was  reached  : — a  lone  deep  glen, 
Holy,  perchance,  of  yore,  for  cave  and  fount 
Were  there,  and  sweet-voiced  echoes  ;  and  above, 
The  silence  of  the  blue,  still,  upper  Heaven 
Hung  round  the  crags  of  Pindus,  where  they  wore 
Their  crowning  snows. — Upon  a  rock  he  sprang, 
The  unbeloved  one,  for  his  home  to  gaze 
Through  the  wild  laurels  back  ;  but  then  a  light' 
Broke  on  the  stern,  proud  sadness  of  his  eye, 
A  sudden  quivering  light,  and  from  his  lips 
A  burst  of  passionate  song. 

"  Farewell,  farewell  f 

I  hear  thee,  O  thou  rushing  stream  1— thou'rt  from  my  native  dcD, 
Tbou'rt  bearing  thence  a  mournful  sound  I— a  murmur  of  farewell  i 


320      t  LAYS  OF  MANY  LANDS. 

And  fare  tkee  well — flow  on,  my  stream  ! — flow  on,  thou  bright  and  free  I 
I  do  but  dream  that  in  thy  voice  one  tone  laments  for  me ; 
But  I  have  been  a  thing  unloved,  from  childhood's  loving  years, 
And  therefore  turns  my  soul  to  thee,  forLthou  hast  known  my  tsars  ; 
The  mountains,  and  the  caves,  and  thou,  my  secret  tears  have  known } 
The  woods  can  tell  where  he  hath  wept,  that  ever  wept  alone  I 

"  I  see  thee  once  again,  my  home  1  thou'rt  there  amidst  thy  vines, 
And  clear  upon  thy  gleaming  roof  the  light  of  summer  shines. 
It  is  a  joyous  hour  when  eve  comes  whispering  through  thy  groves, 
The  hour  that  brings  the  son  from  toil,  the  hour  the  mother  loves  I— 
The  hour  the  mother  loves  ! — for  me  beloved  it  hath  not  been  ; 
Yet  ever  in  its  purple  smile,  thou  smilest,  a  blessed  scene  1 
Whose  quiet  beauty  o'er  my  soul  through  distant  years  will  come — 
Yet  what  but  as  the  dead,  to  thee,  shall  I  be  then,  my  home  ? 

' '  Not  as  the  dead ! — no,  not  the  dead  ! — We  speak  of  them — we  keep 
Their  names,  like  light  that  must  not  fade,  within  our  bosoms  deep  I 
We  hallow  even  the  lyre  they  touched,  we  love  the  lay  they  sung, 
We  pass  with  softer  step  the  place  they  filled  our  band  among  ! 
But  I  depart  like  sound,  like  dew,  like  aught  that  leaves  on  earth 
No  trace  of  sorrow  or  delight,  no  memory  of  its  birth  I 
I  go ! — the  echo  of  the  rock  a  thousand  songs  may  swell 
When  mine  is  a  forgotten  voice. — Woods,  mountains,  home,  farewell  I 

"  And  farewell,  mother ! — I  have  borne  in  lonely  silence  long, 
But  now  the  current  of  my  soul  grows  passionate  and  strong  I 
And  I  will  speak  1  though  but  the  wind  that  wanders  through  the  sky, 
And  but  the  dark,  deep-rustling  pines  and  rolling  streams  reply. 
Yes  ! .  I  will  speak  1 — within  my  breast  whate'er  hath  seemed  to  be, 
There  lay  a  hidden  fount  of  love,  that  would  have  gushed  for  thee ! 
Brightly  it  would  have  gushed,  but  thou,  my  mother  1  thou  hast  thrown 
Back  on  the  forests  and  the  wilds  what  should  have  been  thine  own  t 

1  Then  fare  thee  well  1  I  leave  thee  not  in  loneliness,  to  pine, 
Since  thou  hast  sons  of  statelier  mien,  and  fairer  brow  than  mine  I 
Forgive  me  that  thou  couldst  not  love  ! — it  may  be,  that  a  tone 
Yet  from  my  burning  heart  may  pierce  through  thine,  when  I  am  gone  1 
And  thou,  perchance,  mayst  weep  for  him  on  whom  thou  ne'er  hast  smiled, 
And  the  grave  give  his  birthright  back  to  thy  neglected  child ! 
Might  but  my  spirit  then  return,  and  'midst  its  kindred  dwell, 
And  quench  its  thirst  with  love's  free  tears ! — 'Tis  all  a  dream — farewell  (° 

"  Farewell  1" — the  echo  died  with  that  deep  word, 
Yet  died  not  so  the  late  repentant  pang 
By  the  strain  quickened  in  the  mother's  breast  1 
There  had  passed  many  changes  o'er  her  brow, 
And  cheek,  and  eye  ;  but  into  one  bright  flood 
Of  tears  at  last  all  melted  ;  and  she  fell 
On  the  glad  bosom  of  her  child,  and  cried, 
"  Return,  return,  my  son  1" — The  echo  caught 
A  lovelier  sound  than  song,  and  woke  again, 
Murmuring — "  Return,  my  son  I"— 


LAYS  OF  MANY  LANDS.  321 


THE  SULIOTE  MOTHER. 

[It  Is  related,  In  a  French  Life  of  All  Pacha,  that  several  of  the  Sullote  women,  on  the  advance 
of  the  Turkish  troops  into  their  mountain  fastnesses,  assembled  on  a  lofty  summit,  and,  aftei 
chanting  a  wild  song,  precipitated  themselves,  with  their  children,  into  the  chasm  below,  to  avoaJ 
becoming  the  slaves  of  the  enemy.] 

SHE  stood  upon  the  loftiest  peak, 

Amidst  the  clear  blue  sky, 
A  bitter  smile  was  on  her  cheek, 

And  a  dark  flash  in  her  eye. 

"  Dost  thou  see  them,  boy? — through  the  dusky  pines 
Dost  thou  see  where  the  foeman's  armour  shines  ? 
Hast  thou  caught  the  gleam  of  the  conqueror's  crest  ? 
My  babe,  that  I  cradled  on  my  breast, 
Wouldst  thou  spring  from  thy  mother's  arms  with  joy  ?~ 
That  sight  hath  cost  thee  a  father,  boy  I" 

For  in  the  rocky  strait  beneath, 

Lay  Suliote  sire  and  son  ; 
They  had  heaped  high  the  piles  of  death 

Before  the  pass  was  won. 

*'  They  have  crossed  the  torrent,  and  on  they  come  I 
Woe  for  the  mountain  hearth  and  home ! 
There,  where  the  hunter  laid  by  his  spear, 
There,  where  the  lyre  hath  been  sweet  to  hear, 
There,  where  I  sang  thee,  fair  babe  1  to  sleep, 
Nought  but  the  blood-stain  our  trace  shall  keep  I" 

And  now  the  horn's  loud  blast  was  heard, 

And  now  the  cymbal's  clang, 
Till  even  the  upper  air  was  stirred, 

As  cliff  and  hollow  rang. 

".Hark !  they  bring  music,  my  joyous  child  1 
What  saith  the  trumpet  to  Suli's  wild  I 
Doth  it  light  thine  eye  with  so  quick  a  fire, 
As  if  at  a  glance  of  thine  armed  sire  ? — 
Still  1 — be  thou  still  1 — there  are  brave  men  low — 
Thou  wouldst  not  smile  couldst  thou  see  him  now  J 

But  nearer  came  the  clash  of  steel, 

And  louder  swelled  the  horn, 
And  farther  yet  the  tambour's  peal' 

Through  the  dark  pass  was  borne. 

"  Hear'st  thou  the  sound  of  their  savage  mirth  >— 
Boy  1  thou  wert  free  when  I  gave  thee  birth,— 
Free,  and  bow  cherished,  my  warrior's  son  I 
He  too  hath  blessed  thee,  as  I  have  done  I 
Ay,  and  unchained  must  his  loved  ones  be — 
Freedom,  young  Suliote  I  for  thee  and  me  f " 

And  from  the  arrowy  peak  sba  sprang, 

And  fast  the  fair  child  bore  : 
A  veil  upon  the  wind  was  Sung, 

.A  cry—and  alj  was  o'er  J 


32?  LAYS  OF  MANY  LANDS. 


A     THE  FAREWELL  TO  THE  DEAD. 

{The  following  piece  is  founded  on  a  beautiful  part  of  the  Greek  funeral  service,  in  which 
relatives  and  friends  are  invited  to  embrace  the  deceased  (whose  face  is  uncovered)  and  to  bid  Uitif 
Anal  adieu. — See  Christian  Researches  in  the  Mediterranean.] 

"  Tis  hard  to  lay  into  the  earth 
A  countenance  so  benign  !  a  form  that  walked 
But.  yesterday  so  stately  o'er  the  earth  1" — WILSON. 

COMB  i  tear  I    Ere  yet  the  dust 
Soil  the  bright  paleness  of  the  settled  brow, 
Look  on  your  brother ;  and  embrace  him  now, 

In  still  and  solemn  trust  I 

Come  near  I— once  more  Jet  kindred  lips  be  pressed 
On  bis  cold  cheek  ;  then  bear  him  to  his  rest  I 

Look  yet  on  this  young  face  I 
What  shall  the  beauty,  from  amongst  us  gone, 
Leave  of  its  image,  even  where  most  it  shone. 

Gladdening  its  hearth  and  race  ? 
Dim  grows  the  semblance  on  man's  heart  impressed. 
Come  near,  and  bear  the  beautiful  to  rest  I 

Ve  weep,  and  it  is  well  1 
For  tears  befit  earth's  partings  I    Yesterday, 
Song  was  upon  the  lips  of  this  pale  clay, 

And  sunshine  seemed  to  dwell 
Where'er  he  moved — the  welcome  and  the  blessed. 
Now  gaze  I  and  bear  the  silent  unto  rest  I 

i  Look  yet  on  him  whose  eye 

Meets  yours  no  more,  in  sadness  or  in  mirth. 
Was  he  not  fair  amidst  the  sons  of  earth, 

The  beings  born  to  die  ? — 

But  not  where  death  has  power  may  love  be  blessed. 
Come  near !  and  bear  ye  the  beloved  to  rest  I 

How  may  the  mother's  heart 
Dwell  on  her  son,  and  dare  to  hope  again? 
The  spring's  rich  promise  hath  been  given  in  vain— 

The  lovely  must  depart  1 
Is  he  not  gone,  our  brightest  and  our  best  ? 
Come  near  1  and  bear  the  early  called  to  rest ! 

Look  on  him  1    Is  he  laid 
To  slumber  from  the  harvest  or  the  chase  ? — 
Too  still  and  sad  the  smile  upon  his  face ; 

Yet  that,  even  that  must  fade  : 
Death  holds  not  long  unchanged  his  fairest  guest. 
Come  near  1  and  bear  the  mortal  to  his  rest  i 

His  voice  of  mirth  hath  ceased 
Amidst  the  vineyards  !  there  is  left  no  place 
For  him  whose  dust  receives  your  vain  embrace. 

At  the  gay  bridal-feast  ! 

Earth  must  take  earth  to  moulder  on  her  breast. 
Come  neaj !  weep  o'er  him  1  bear  him  to  his  rest, 


REOORDS  OP  WOMAN. 

Yet  mourn  ye  not  as  they 

Whose  spirit's  light  is  quenched  I.    For  him  the  past 
Is  sealed  :  he  may  not  fall,  he  may  not  cast 

His  birthright's  hope  away  I 
All  is  not  here  of  our  beloved  and  blessed. 
Leave  ye  the  sleeper  with  his  God  to  rest  I 


l828. 

PECORDS    OF    WOMAN. 

ARABELLA  STUART. 

["  The  Lady  Arabella."  as  she  has  been  frequently  entitled,  was  descended  from  Margaret, 
tldest  daughter  of  Henry  VII.,  and  consequently  allied  by  birth  to  Elizabeth  as  well_as  James  1. 
This  affinity  to  the  throne  proved  the  misfortune  of  her  life,  as  the  jealousies  which  it  constantly 
excited  in  her  royal  relatives,  who  were  anxious  to  prevent  her  marrying,  shut  her  out  from  the 
enjoyment  of  that  domestic  happiness  which  her  heart  appears  to  have  so  fervently  .desired.  By  a 
secret  but  early-discovered  union  with  William  Seymour,  son  of  Lord  Beauchamp,  she  alarmed 
the  cabinet  of  James,  and  the  wedded  lovers  were  immediately  placed  in  separate  confinement. 
From  this  they  found  means  to  concert  a  romantic  plan  of  escape  ;  and  having  won  over  a  female 
attendant,  by  whose  assistance  she  was  disguised  in  male  attire,  Arabella,  though  faint  from  recent 
sickness  and  suffering,  stole  out  in  the  night,  and  at  last  reached  an  appointed  spot,  where  a  boat 
and  servants  were  in  waiting.  She  embarked ;  and  at  break  of  day  a  French  vessel  engaged  to 
receive  her  was  discovered  and  gained.  As  Seymour,  however,  had  not  yet  arrived,  she  was 
desirous  that  the  vessel  should  lie  at  anchor  for  him;  but  this  wish  was  overruled  by  her 
companions,  who,  contrary  to  her  entreaties,  hoisted  sail,  "  which,"  says  Disraeli,  "occasioned 
so  fatal  a  termination  to  this  romantic  adventure,  Seymour,  indeed,  had  escaped  from  the  Tower  ; 
he  reached  the  wharf,  and  found  his  confidential  man  waiting  with  a  boat,  and  arrived  at  Lee. 
The  time  passed  ;  the  waves  were  rising  ;  Arabella  was  not  there  f  but  in  the  distance  he  descried 
a  vessel  Hiring  a  fisherman  to  take  him  on  board,  he  discovered,  to  his  grief,  on  hailing  it,  that 
it  was  not  the  French  ship  charged  with  his  Arabella  ;  in  despair  and  confusion  he  found  another 
•hip  from  Newcastle,  which  for  a  large  sum  altered  its  course,  and  landed  him  in  Flanders." 
Arabella,  meantime,  whilst  imploring  Her  attendants  to  linger,  and  earnestly  looking  out  for  the 
expected  boat  of  her  husband,  was  overtaken  in  Calais  Roads  by  a  vessel  in  the  king's  service,  and 
brought  back  to  a  captivity,  under  the  suffering  of  which  her  mind  and  constitution  gradually 
sank,  "  What  passed  In  that  dreadful  imprisonment  cannot  perhaps  be  recovered  for  authentic 
history,  but  enough  is  known — that  her  mind  grew  impaired,  that  she  finally  lost  her  reason,  and, 
if  the  duration  of  her  imprisonment  was  short,  that  it  was  only  terminated  by  her  death.  Some 
effusions,  often  begun  and  never  ended,  written  and  erased,  incoherent  and  rational,  yet  remain 
unong  her  papers. — D'ltraelfs  Curiositiet  of  Literaiurt. 

The  following  poem,  meant  as  some  record  of  her  fate,  and  the  imagined  fluctuations  of  her 
thoughts  and  feelings.  Is  supposed  to  commence  during  the  time  of  her  first  imprisonment,  whilst 
her  mind  was  yet  buoyed  up  by  the  consciousness  of  Seymour's  affection,  and  the  cherished  hopt 
cf  eventual  deliverance.] 

"  And  is  not  love  In  vain 
Torture  enough  without  a  living  tomb  1"— BYBON. 

M  Fennossi  al  fin  Q  cor  che  balzo  tanto."— •PINDCKOKTE. 

t 

'TwAS  but  a  dream  I    I  saw  the  stag  leap  free, 
Under  the  boughs  where  early  birds  were  singing  • 

1  stood  o'ershadowed  by  the  greenwood  tree. 
And  heard,  it  seemed,  a  sudden  bugle  ringing 

Far  through  a  royalJbrest.    Then  the  fawn 

Shot,  like  a  gleam  of  light,  from  grassy  lawn, 

To  secret  covert;  and  the  smooth  turf  shooJs, 

And.  lilies  9uiivr<?4  by  the  glade's  lone  brook. 


324  EEOORDS  OF  WOMAN. 

And  young  leaves  trembled,  as,  in  fleet  career, 
A  princely  band,  with  horn,  and  hound,  and  spear. 
Like  a  rich  masque  swept  forth.     I  saw  the  danco 
Of  their  white  plumes,  that  bore  a  silvery  glance 
Into  the  deep  wood's  heart;  and  all  passed  by 
Save  one — I  met  the  smile  of  one  clear  eye, 
Flashing  out  joy  to  mine.    Yes,  thou  wert  there, 
Seymour  I    A  soft  wind  blew  the  clustering  hair 
Back  from  thy  gallant  brow,  as  thou  didst  rein 
Thy  courser,  turning  from  that  gorgeous  train, 
And  fling,  methought,  thy  hunting  spear  away, 
And,  lightly  graceful  in  thy  green  array, 
Bound  to  my  side.    And  -we,  that  met  and  parted 

Ever  in  dread  of  some  dark  watchful  power, 
Won  back  to  childhood's  trust,  and  fearless-hearted, 

Blent  the  glad  fulness  of  our  thoughts  that  hour 
Even  like  the  mingling  of  sweet  streams,  beneath 
Dim  woven  leaves,  and  'midst  the  floating  breath 
Of  hidden  forest-flowers. 


Tis  past !    I  wake 

A  captive,  and  alone,  and  fer  from  thee, 
My  love  and  friend  I    Yet  fajtering,  for  thy  sake, 

A  quenchless  hope  of  happiness  to  be ; 
And  feeling  still  my  woman-spirit  strong, 
In  the  deep  faith  which  lifts  from  earthly  wrong 
A  heavenward  glance.     I  know,  I  know  our  love 
Shall  yet  call  gentle  angels  from  above, 
By  its  undying  fervour,  and  prevail — 
Sending  a  breath,  as  of  the  spring's  first  gale, 
Through  hearts  now  cold  ;  and,  raising  its  bright  face, 
With  a  free  gush  of  sunny  tears,  erase 
The  characters  of  anguish.     In  this  trust, 
I  bear,  I  strive,  I  bow  not  to  the  dust, 
That  I  may  bring  thee  back  no  faded  form, 
No  bosom  chilled  and  blighted  by  the  storm, 
But  all  my  youth's  first  treasures,  wheu  we  meet, 
Making  past  sorrow,  by  communion,  sweet. 

III. 

And  thou  too  art  in  bonds  I    Yet  droop  thou  not, 
O  my  beloved  !  there  is  one  hopeless  lot, 
But  one,  and  that  not  ours.     Beside  the  dead 
There  sits  the  grief  that  mantles  up  its  head, 
Loathing  the  laughter  and  proud  pomp  of  light* 
When  darkness,  from  the  vainly  doting  sight 
Covers  its  beautiful  1    If  thou  wert  gone 

To  the  grave's  bosom,  with  thy  radiant  brow— 
If  thy  deep-thrilling  voice,  with  that  low  tone 

Of  earnest  tenderness,  which  now,  even  now 
Seems  floating  through  my  soul,  were  music  taken 
For  ever  from  this  world— oh !  thus  forsaken 
Could  I  bear  on  ?    Thou  lirest,  thou  livest,  thou'rt  mine  { 
With  this  glad  thought  I  make  my  heart  a  shrine, 
And  by  the  lamp  which  quenchless  there  shall  bunt, 
Sit  a  lone  watcher  for  the  day's  return. 


HEOOSD8  OF  WOMAN.  325 


And  lo  !  the  joy  that  cometh  with  the  morning, 

Brightly  victorious  o'er  the  hours  of  care  I 
1  have  not  watched  in  vain,  serenely  scorning 

The  wild  and  busy  whispers  of  despair  1 
Thou  hast  sent  tidings,  as  of  Heaven — I  waiv 

The  hour,  the  sign,  for  blessed  flight  to  thce. 
Oh  I  for  the  skylark's  wing  that  seeks  its  mate 

As  a  star  shoots  I — but  on  the  breezy  sea 
We  shall  meet  soon.     To  think  of  such  an  hour  1 

Will  not  my  heart,  o'erburdened  by  its  bliss, 
Faint  and  give  way  within  me,  as  a  flower 

Borne  down  and  perishing  by  noontide's  kiss? 
Yet  shall  I  fear  that  lot — the  perfect  rest, 
The  full  deep  joy  of  dying  on  thy  breast, 
After  long  suffering  won  ?    So  rich  a  close 
Too  seldom  croxvns  with  peace  affection's  woas. 


Sunset  1    I  tell  each  moment.     From  the  skies 
The  last  red  splendour  floats  along  my  wall, 

Uke  a  king's  banner  1    Now  it  melts,  it  dies  1 
1  see  one  star — I  hear — 'twas  not  the  call, 

The  expected  voice  ;  my  quick  heart  throbbed  too  soon. 

I  must  keep  vigil  till  yon  rising  moon 

Shower  down  less  golden  "light.     Beneath  her  beam 

Through  my  lone  lattice  poured,  I  sit  and  dream 

Of  summer-lands  afar,  where  holy  love, 

Under  the  vine  or  in  the  citron  grove, 

May  breathe  from  terror 

Now  the  night  grows  deep, 
And  silent  as  its  clouds,  and  full  of  sleep. 
I  hear  my  veins  beat.     Hark  1  a  bell's  slow  chime ! 
My  heart  strikes  with  it.     Yet  again — 'tis  time ! 
A  step  ! — a  voice  1 — or  but  a  rising  breeze  ? 
Hark  I — haste  1 — I  come,  to  meet  thee  on  the  seas ! 


VI. 

Now  never  more,  oh  !  never,  in  the  worth 
Of  its  pure  cause,  let  sorrowing  love  on  earth 
Trust  fondly — never  more  1    The  hope  is  crushed 
That  lit  my  life,  the  voice  within  me  hushed 
That  spoke  sweet  oracles  ;  and  I  return 
To  lay  my  youth,  as  in  a  burial  urn, 
Where  sunshine  may  not  find  it.    All  is  lost  I 
No  tempest  met  our  barks — no  billow  tossed ; 
Yet  were  they  severed,  even  as  we  must  be, 
That  so  have  loved,  so  striven  our  hearts  to  free 
From  their  close-coiling  fate  1    In  vain — in  vain  f 
The  dark  links  meet,  and  clasp  themselves  again, 
And  press  out  life.     Upon  the  deck  I  stood. 
And  a  white  sail  came  gliding  o'er  the  flood. 
Like  some  proud  bird  of  ocean  ;  then  mine  eye 
Strained  out  one  moment  earlier  to  descry 


326  RECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 

The  form  it  ached  for,  and  the  bark's  career 
Seemed  slow  to  that  fond  yearning :  it  drew  near 
Fraught  with  our  foes  1    What  boots  it  to  recall 
The  strife,  the  tears  ?    Once  more  a  prison  wall 
Shuts  the  green  hills  and  woodlands  from  my  sight, 
And  joyous  glance  of  waters  to  the  light, 
And  thee,  my  Seymour  ! — thee  I 

I  will  not  sink 

Thou,  them  hast  rent  the  heavy  chain  that  bound  thea  I 
And  this  shall  be  my  strength — the  joy  to  think 

That  thou  mayest  wander  with  Heaven's  breath  around  thes, 
And  all  the  laughing  sky  I    This  thought  shall  yet 
Shine  o'er  my  heart  a  radiant  amulet, 
Guarding  it  from  despair.    Thy  bonds  are  broken  j 
And  unto  me,  I  know,  thy  true  love's  token 
Shall  one  day  be  deliverance,  though  the  years 
Lie  dim  between,  o'erhung  with  mists  of  tears. 

VII. 

My  friend  !  my  friend  !  where  art  thou  ?    Day  by  day 
Gliding  like  some  dark  mournful  stream  away, 
My  silent  youth  flows  from  me.    Spring,  the  while, 

Comes  and  rains  beauty  on  the  kindling  boughs 
Round  hall  and  hamlet ;  summer  with  her  smile 

Fills  the  green  forest :  young  hearts  breathe  their  vows ; 
Brothers  long  parted  meet ;  fair  children  rise 
Round  the  glad  board  ;  hope  laughs  from  loving  eyes  : 
All  this  is  in  the  world  ! — These  joys  lie  sown, 
The  dew  of  every  path  !    On  one  alone 
Their  freshness  may  not  fall — the  stricken  deer 
Dying  of  thirst  with  all  the  waters  near. 

vrn. 

Ye  are  from  dingle  and  fresh  glade,  ye  flowers ! 

By  some  kind  hand  to  cheer  my  dungeon  sent ; 
O'er  you  the  oak  shed  down  the  summer  showers. 

And  the  lark's  nest  was  where  your  bright  cups  bent, 
Quivering  to  breeze  and  raindrop,  like  the  sheen 
Of  twilight  stars.    On  you  heaven's  eye  hath  been, 
Through  the  leaves  pouring  its  dark  sultry  blue 
Into  your  glowing  hearts  ;  the  bee  to  you 
Hath  murmured,  and  the  rill.     My  soul  grows  faint 
With  passionate  yearning,  as  its  quick  dreams  paint 
Your  haunts  by  dell  and  stream — the  green,  the  free, 
The  full  of  all  sweet  sound — the  shut  from  me  1 

IX. 

There  went  a  swift  bird  singing  past  my  cell— 
O  Love  and  Freedom  t  ye  are  lovely  things  I 
With  you  the  peasant  on  the  hills  may  dwell, 

And  by  the  streams.     But  I — the  blood  of  kings, 
A  proud  unmingling  river,  through  my  veins 
Flows  in  lone  brightness,  and  its  gifts  are  chains ' 
Kings  1 — I  had  silent  visions  of  deep  bliss, 
Leaving  their  thrones  far  distant ;  end  for  this 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 

I  am  cast  under  their  triumphal  car, 
An  insect  to  be  crushed  1   Oh  I  Heaven  is  tar- 
Earth  pitiless  I 

Dost  thou  forget  me,  Seymour?    1  am  proved 

So  long,  so  sternly  !  Seymour,  my  beloved  1 

There  are  such  tales  of  holy  marvels  done 

By  strong  affection,  of  deliverance  won 

Through  its  prevailing  power  1    Are  these  things  told 

Till  the  young  weep  with  rapture,  and  the  old 

Wonder,  yet  dare  not  doubt ;  and  thou  I  oh,  thou  I 

Dost  thou  forget  me  in  my  hope's  decay? — 
Thou  canst  not  I  Through  the  silent  night,  eren  no*, 

I,  chat  need  prayer  so  much,  awake  and  pray 
Still  first  for  thee.    O  gentle,  gentle  friend ! 
How  shall  I  bear  this  anguish  to  the  end? 

Aid  1— comes  there  yet  no  aid?    The  voice  of  blood 

Passes  heaven's  gate,  even  ere  the  crimson  flood 

Sinks  through  the  greensward  !     Is  there  not  a  cry 

From  the  wrung  heart,  of  power,  through  agony, 

To  pierce  the  clouds?    Hear,  Mercy  I — hear  me  I    None 

That  bleed  and  weep  beneath  the  smiling  sun 

Have  heavier  cause  I    Yet  hear  ! — my  soul  grows  dark  I— 

Who  hears  the  last  shriek  from  the  sinking  bark 

On  the  mid  seas,  and  with  the  storm  alone, 

And  bearing  to  the  abyss,  unseen,  unknown, 

Its  freight  of  human  hearts  ?    The  o'ermastering  wave 

Who  shall  tell  how  it  rushed — and  none  to  save  1 

Thou  hast  forsaken  me  I    I  feel,  I  know, 

There  would  be  rescue  if  this  were  not  so. 

Thou'rt  at  the  chase,  thou'rt  at  the  festive  board, 

Thou'rt  where  the  red  wine  free  and  high  is  poured, 

Thou'rt  where  the  dancers  meet  I    A  magic  glass 

Is  set  within  my  soul,  and  proud  shapes  pass, 

Flushing  it  o'er  with,  pomp  from  bower  and  ball ; 

I  see  one  shadow,  stateliest  there  of  all— 

Thine!    What  dost  thou  amidst  the  bright  and  fair. 

Whispering  light  words,  and  mocking  my  despair? 

It  is  not  well  of  thee  1    My  love  was  more 

Than  fiery  song  may  breathe,  deep  thought  explore : 

And  there  thou  smilest,  while  my  heart  is  dying, 

With  all  its  blighted  hopes  around  it  lying  : 

Even  thou,  on  whom  they  hung  their  last  green  leaf — 

Yet  smile,  smile  on  I  too  bright  art  thou  for  grief  1 

Death  I    What  1  is  death  a  locked  and  treasured  thing, 
Guarded  by  swords  of  fire  ?  a  hidden  spring, 
A  fabled  fruit,  that  I  should  thus  endure, 
As  if  the  world  within  me  held  no  cure  ? 

Wherefore  not  spread  free  wings Heaven,  Heaven  control 

These  thoughts  I — they  rush — I  look  into  itiy  soul 
As  down  a  gulf,  and  tremble  at  the  array 
Of  fierce  forms  crowding  it !    Give  strength  to  pray  I 
So  shall  their  dark  host  pass. 

The  storm  is  stilled, 

Father  in  Heaven,  thou,  only  thou,  canst  sound 
The  heart's  great  deep,  with  floods  of  anguish  filled. 

For  human  line  too  fearfully  profound. 


328  RECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 

Therefore,  forgive1,  my  Father  1  if  thy  child, 
Rocked  on  its  heaving  darkness,  hath  grown  wild, 
And  sinned  in  her  despair  1    It  well  may  be 
That  thou  wouldst  lead  my  spirit  back  to  thee, 
By  the  crushed  hope  too  long  on  this  world  poured  — 
The  stricken  love  which  hath  perchance  adored 
A  mortal  in  thy  place  I    Now  let  me  strive 
With  thy  strong  arm  no  more  I    Forgive,  forgive  I 
,  Take  me  to  peace  I 

And  peace  at  last  is  nigh. 
,  A  sign  is  on  my  brow,  a  token  sent 
The  o'erwearied  dust  from  home  .  no  oreeze  flits  by, 

But  calls  me  with  a  strange  sweet  whisper,  blent 
Of  many  mysteries. 

Hark  !  the  warning  tone 
Deepens — its  word  is  Death  I    Alone,  alone, 
And  sad  in  youth,  but  chastened,  I  departr 
Bowing  to  heaven.    Yet,  yet  my  woman's  heart 
Shall  wake  a  spirit  and  a  power  to  bless, 
Even  in  this  hour's  o'ershadowing  Tearfulness, 
Thee,  its  first  love  I    O  tender  still,  and  true  I 
Be  it  forgotten  if  mine  anguish  threw 
Drops  from  its  bitter  fountain  on  thy  name, 
Though  but  a  moment  1 

Now,  with  fainting  frame, 
With  soul  just  lingering  on  the  flight  begun, 
To  bind  for  thee  its  last  dim  thoughts  in  one, 
I  bless  thee  1    Peace  be  on  thy  noble  head, 
Years  of  bright  fame  when  I  am  with  the  dead  ! 
I  bid  this  prayer  survive  me,  and  retain 
Its  might,  again  to  bless  thee,  and  again  1 
Thou  hast  been  gathered  into  my  dark  fate 
Too  much  ;  too  long,  for  my  sake,  desolate 
Hath  been  thine  exiled  youth  :  but  now  take  back, 
From  dying  hands,  thy  freedom,  and  re-track 
(After  a  few  kind  tears  for  her  whose  days 
Went  out  in  dreams  of  thee)  the  sunny  ways 
Of  hope,  and  find  thou  happiness  I    Yet  send 
Even  then,  in  silent  hours,  a  thought,  dear  friend ! 
Down  to  my  voiceless  chamber ;  for  thy  love 
Hath  been  to  me  all  gifts  of  earth  above, 
Though  bought  with  burning  tear  I     It  is  the  sting 
Of  death  to  leave  that  vainly-precious  thing 
In  this  cold  world  1    What  were  it,  then,  if  thou, 
With  thy  fond  eyes,  wert  gazing  on  me  now  ? 
Too  keen  a  pang.     Farewell  I  and  yet  once  mores, 
Farewell  I    The  passion  of  long  years  I  pour 
Into  that  word  1    Thou  hearest  not — but  the  woe 
And  fervour  of  its  tones  may  one  day  flow 
To  thy  heart's  holy  place  :  there  let  them  dwell. 
We  shall  o'ersweep  the  grave  to  me^t.    Farewell  I 


OF  WOMAN.  829 


THE  BRIDE  OF  THE  GREEK  ISLE.* 

"  Fear !    I'm  a  Greek,  and  how  should  I  fear  death? 
A  clave,  and  wherefore  should  I  dread  my  freedom  ? 

***** 
I  will  not  lire  degraded."— Sardanataltt*. 

I. 

COMB  from  ,thc  woods  with  the  citron-flowers, 

Come  with  your  lyres  for  the  festal  hours, 

Maids  of  bright  Scio  1    They  came  and  the  breeze 

Bore  their  sweet  songs  o'er  the  Grecian  seas ; 

They  came,  and  Eudora  stood  robed  and  crowned, 

The  bride  of  the  mom,  with  her  train  around. 

Jewels  flashed  out  from  her  braided  hair, 

Like  starry  dews  'midst  the  roses  there ; 

Pearls  on  her  bosom  quivering  shone, 

Heaved  by  her  heart  through  its  golden  zope. 

But  a  brow,  as  those  gems  of  the  ocean  pale, 

Gleamed  from  beneath  her  transparent  veil ; 

Changeful  and  faint  was  her  fair  cheek's  hue, 

Though  clear  as  a  flower  which  the  light  looks  through ; 

And  die  glance  of  her  dark  resplendent  eye, 

For  the  aspect  of  woman  at  times  too  high, 

Lay  floating  in  mists,  which  the  troubled  stream 

Of  the  soul  sent  up  o'er  its  fervent  beam. 

She  looked  on  the  vine  at  her  father's  door, 

Like  one  that  is  leaving  his  native  shore-; 

She  hung  o'er  the  myrtle  once  called  her  own, 

As  it  greenly  waved  by  the  threshold  stone ; 

She  turned — and  her  mother's  gaze  brought  back 

Each  hue  of  her  childhood's  faded  track. 

Oh  I  hush  the  song,  and  let  her  tears 

Flow  to  the  dream  of  her  early  years  I 

Holy  and  pure  are  the  drops  that  fall 

When  the  young  bride  goes  from  her  father's  hail ; 

She  goes  unto  love  yet  untried  and  new,  •• 

She  parts  from  love  which  hath  still  been  true : 

Mute  be  the  song  and  the  choral  strain, 

Till  her  heart's  deep  well-spring  is  clear  again ! 

She  wept  on  her  mother's  faithful  breast, 

Like  a  babe  that  sobs  itself  to  rest ; 

She  wept — yet  laid  her  hand  awhile 

In  his  that  waited  her  dawning  smile— 

Her  soul's  affianced,  nor  cherished  less 

For  the  gush  of  nature's  tenderness ! 

She  lifted  her  graceful  head  at  last — 

The  choking  swell  of  her  heart  was  past ; 

And  her  lovely  thoughts  from  their  cells  found  way 

In  the  sudden  flow  of  a  plaintive  lay. 

THE  BRIDE'S  FAREWBLL. 

WHY  do  I  weep  ?    To  leave  the  vine 
Whose  clusters  o'er  me  bend  ; 

*  Founded  on  »  circumstance  related  in  the  second  series  of  the  Curioritits  ofLilerahm. 


380  RECORDS  OP  WOMAN, 

The  myrtle — yet,  oh,  call  it  mine  I—- 
The flowers  I  love  to  tend. 

A  thousand  thoughts  of  all  things  dear 

.    Like  shadows  o'er  me  sweep ; 

I  leave  my  sunny  childhood  here, 
Oh  I  therefore  let  me  weep  1 

I  leave  thee,  sister  !  we  have  played 

Through  many  a  joyous  hour, 
Where  the  silvery  green  of  the  olive  shade 

Hung  dim  o'er  fount  and  bower. 
Yes  I  thou  and  I,  by  stream,  by  shore, 

In  song,  in  prayer,  in  sleep, 
Have  been  as  we  may  be  no  more — 

Kind  sister,  let  me  weep  I 

1  leave  thee,  father  I    Eve's  bright  moot) 

Must  now  light  other  feet, 
With  the  gathered  grapes,  and  the  lyre  in  tune, 

Thy  homeward  step  to  greet. 
Thou,  in  whose  voice,  to  bless  thy  child, 

Lay  tones  of  love  so  deep, 
Whose  eye  o'er  all  my  youth  hath  smiled— 

I  leave  thee  1  let  me  weep  I 

Mother  I  I  leave  thee  I  on  thy  breast 

Pouring  out  joy  and  woe, 
I  have  found  that  holy  place  of  rest 

Stifl  changeless — yet  I  go  I 
Lips,  that  have  lulled  me  with  your  strain  1 

Eyes,  that  have  watched  my  sleep  I 
Will  earth  give  love  like  yours  again  ?— 

Sweet  mother  !  let  me  weep  I 

And  like  a  slight  young  tree  that  throws 
The  weight  of  rain  fronfits  drooping  boughs, 
Once  more  she  wept.    But  a  changeful  thing 
Is  the  human  heart — as  a  mountain  spring 
That  works  its.  way,  through  the  torrent's  foam, 
To  the  bright  pool  near  it,  the  lily's  home  I 
It  is  well  I — the  cloud  on  her  soul  that  lay, 
Hath  melted  in  glittering  drops  away. 
Wake  again,  mingle,  sweet  flute  and  lyre  1 
She  turns  to  her  lover,  she  leaves  her  sire, 
Mother  1  on  earth  it  must  still  be  so : 
Thou  rearest  the  lovely  to  see  them  go  ( 

They  are  moving  onward,  the  bridal  throng, 
x        Ye  may  track  their  way  by  the  swells  of  song ; 

Ye  may  catch  through  the  foliage  their  white  robes'  gleam, 

Like  a  swan  'midst  the  reeds  of  a  shadowy  stream ; 

Their  arms  bear  up  garlands,  their  gliding  tread 

Is  over  the  deep-veined  violet's  bed  ; 

They  have  light  leaves  around  them,  blue  skies  above, 

An  arch  for  the  triumph  of  youth  and  love  1. 

B. 

Still  and  sweet  was  the  home  that  stood 
in  the  flowering  depths  of  a  Grecian  wood. 


RECORDS  OP  WOMAN. 

With  the  soft  green  light  o'er  its  low  roof  spread, 
As  if  from  the  glow  of  an  emerald  shed, 
Pouring  through  lime-leaves  that  mingled  on  high. 
Asleep  in  the  silence  of  noon's  clear  sky. 
Citrons  amidst  their  dark  foliage  glowed, 
Making  a  gleam  round  the  lone  abode ; 
Laurels  o'erhung  it,  whose  faintest  shiver 
Scattered  out  rays  like  a  glancing  river ; 
Stars  of  jasmine  its  pillars  crowned, 
Vine-stalks  its  lattice  and  the  walls  had  bound  ; 
And  brightly  before  it  a  fountain's  play 
Flung  showers  through  a  thicket  of  glossy  bay, 
To  a  cypress  which  rose  in  that  flashing  rain, 
Like  one  tall  shaft  of  some  fallen  fane. 

And  thither  I  an  this  had  brought  his  bride, 
And  the  guests  were  met  by  that  fountain  side. 
They  lifted  the  veil  from  Eudora's  face — 
It  smiled  out  softly  in  pensive  grace, 
With  lips  of  love,  and  a  brow  serene, 
Meet  for  the  soul  of  the  deep-wood  scene. 
Bring  wine,  bring  odours  I — the  board  is  spread  ; 
Bring  roses  1  a  chaplet  for  every  head  } 
The  wine-cups  foamed,  and  the  rose  was  showered 
On  the  young  and  fair  from  the  world  embowered  ; 
The  sun  looked  not  on  them  in  that  sweet  shade. 
The  winds  amid  scented  boughs  were  laid ; 
And  there  came  by  fits,  through  some  wavy  tree, 
A  sound  and  a  gleam  of  the  moaning  sea.  . 

Hush  1  be  still  I    Was  that  no  more 
Than  the  murmur  from  the  shore  ? 
Silence  1 — did  thick  rain-drops  beat 
On  the  grass  like  trampling  feet  t 
Fling  down  the  goblet,  and  draw  the  sword  i 
The  groves  are  filled  with  a  pirate  horde  1 
Through  the  dim  olives  their  sabres  shine  I— 
Now  must  the  red  blood  stream  for  wine  1 

The  youths  from  the  banquet  to  battle  sprang, 

The  woods  with  the  shrieks  of  the  maidens  rang ; 

Under  the  golden-fruited  boughs 

There  were  flashing  poniards  and  darkening  brows- 

Footsteps,  o'er  garland  and  lyre  that  fled. 

And  the  dying  soon  on  a  greensward  bed. 

— Eudora,  Eudora  1  t'nou  dost  not  fly  t— 

She  saw  but  lanthis  before  her  lie, 

With  the  blood  from  his  breast  in  a  gushing  flow, 

Like  a  child's  large  tears  in  its  hour  of  woe, 

And  a  gathering  film  in  his  lifted  eye, 

That  sought  bis  young  bride  out  mournfully. 

She  knelt  down  beside  him — her  arms  she  wound 

Like  tendrils,  his  drooping  neck  around. 

As  if  the  passion  of  that  fond  grasp 

Might  chain  in  life  with  its  ivy-clasp. 

But  they  tore  her  thence  in  her  wild  despair, 

The  sea's  fierce  rovers — they  left  him  there : 

They  left  to  the  fountain  a  dark-red  rein, 

&nd  on  the  wet  violets  a  pile  of  slain. 


EEOOBD8  OP 

And  a  hush  of  fear  through  the  summer  grover- 
So  closed  the  triumph  of  youth  and  love  1 

m. 

Gloomy  lay  the  shore  that  night, 
When  the  moon,  with  sleeping  tight, 
Bathed  each  purple  Sciote  hill — 
Gloomy  lay  the  shore,  and  still. 
O'er  the  wave  no  gay  guitar 
Sent  its  floating  music  far ; 
No  glad  sound  of  dancing  feet 
Woke  the  starry  hours  to  greet. 
But  a  voice  of  mortal  woe, 
In  its  changes  wild  or  low, 
Through  the  midnight's  blue  repose, 
From  the  sea-beat  rocks  arose, 
As  Eudora's  mother  stood 
Gazing  o'er  the  /Egean  flood, 
With  a  fixed  and  straining  eye — 
Oh  1  was  the  spoiler's  vessel  nigh? 
Yes*!  there,  becalmed  in  silent  sleep, 
Dark  and  alone  on  a  breathless  deep, 
On  a  sea  of  molten  silver,  dark 
Brooding  it  frowned,  that  evil  bark ! 
There  its  broad  pennon  a  shadow  cast, 
Moveless  and  black  from  the  tall  still  mast  j 
And  the  heavy  sound  of  its  flapping  sail 
Idly  and  vainly  wooed  the  gale. 
Hushed  was  all  else — had  ocean's  breast 
Rocked  e'en  Eudora  that  hour  to  rest? 

To  rest  ?  the  waves  tremble  1 — what  piercing  cry 
Bursts  from  the  heart  of  the  ship  on  high  I 
What  light  through  the  heavens,  in  a  suddezi  spiie, 
Shoots  from  the  deck  up  ?    Fire  I  'tis  fire  1 
There  are  wild  forms  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
Seen  darkly  clear  on  that  lurid  glow  ; 
There  are  shout,  and  signal-gun,  and  call, 
And  the  dashing  of  water — but  fruitless  all  ( 
Man  may  not  fetter,  nor  ocean  tame 
The  might  and  wrath  of  the  rushing  flame  I 
It  hath  twined  the  mast  like  a  glittering  snake. 
That  coils  up  a  tree  from  a  dusky  brake  ; 
It  hath  touched  the  sails,  and  their  canvas  rolls 
Away  from  its  breath  into  shrivelled  scrolls  ; 
It  hath  taken  the  flag's  high  place  in  the  air. 
And  reddened  the  stars  with  its  wavy  glare  ; 
And  sent  out  bright  arrows,  and  soared  in  glee, 
To  a  burning  mount  'midst  the  moonlight  sea. 
The  swimmers  are  plunging  from  stern  and  prow— 
Eudora  1  Eudora  !  where,  where  art  thou  ?' 
The  slave  and  bis  master  alike  are  gone — 
Mother  1  who  stands  on  the  deck  alone  ? 
The  child  of  thy  bosom  I — and  lo  1  a  brand 
Blazing  up  high  in  her  lifted  hand  ! 
And  her  veil  flung  back,  and  her  free  dark  hair 
Swayed  by  the  flames  as  they  rock  and  flare ; 


OF  WOMAN.  383 

And  her  fragile  form  to  its  loftiest  height 
Dilated,  as  if  by  the  spirit's  might ; 
And  her  eye  with  an  eagle-gladness  fraught— 
Oh !  could  this  work  be  of  woman  wrought? 
Yes  I  'twas  her  deed  ! — by  that  haughty  smiles- 
It  was  hers  :  she  hath  kindled  her  funeral  pile  I 
Never  might  shame  on  that  bright  head  be, 
Her  blood  was  the  Greek's,  and  hath  made  her  free ! 

Proudly  she  stands  like  an  Indian  bride, 

On  the  pyre  with  the  holy  dead  beside ; 

But  a  shriek  from  her  mother  hath  caught  her  ear, 

As  the  flames  to  her  marriage  robe  draw  near, 

And  starting,  she  spreads  her  pale  arms  in  vain 

To  the  form  they  must  never  infold  again. 

—One  moment  more,  and  her  hands  are  clasped— 

Fallen  is  the  torch  they  had  wildly  grasped— 

Her  sinking  knee  unto  heaven  is  bowed, 

And  her  last  look  raised  through  the  smoke's  dim  abroad, 

And  her  lips  as  in  prayer  for  her  pardon  move  ;— 

Now  the  night  gathers  o'er  youth  and  love  1 


THE  SWITZER'S  WIFE. 

[Werner  StaufTacher,  one  of  the  three  confederates  of  the  field  of  Grtitli,  had  been  alarmed  by 
the  envy  with  which  the  Austrian  bailiff,  Landenberg,  had  noticed  .the  appearance  of  wealth  and 
comfort  which  distinguished  his  dwelling.  It  was  not,  however,  until  roused  by  the  entreaties  of 
his  wife,  a  woman  who  seems  to  have  been  of  a  heroic  spirit,  that  he  was  induced  to  deliberate 
with  his  friends  upon  the  measures  by  which  Switzerland  was  finally  delivered.] 

"  Nor  look  nor  tone  revealeth  aught 
Save  woman's  quietness  of  thought ; 
And  yet  around  her  is  a  light 
Of  inward  majesty  and  might — M.  J.  J. 

***** 
M  Wer  solch  ein  hen  an  sienen  Busen  driickt, 
Dei  kann  fur  herd  und  hof.  mtt  freuden  fecbien."— WIU.HBLM  TBU. 

IT  was  the  time  when  children  bound  to  meet 

Their  father's  homeward  step  from  field  or  hill, 
And  when  the  herd's  returning  bells  are  sweet, 

In  the  Swiss  valleys,  and  the  lakes  grow  still, 
And  the  last  note  of  that  wild  horn  swells  by 
Which  haunts  the  exile's  heart  with  melody. 

And  lovely  smiled  full  many  an  Alpine  home. 

Touched  with  the  crimson  of  the  dying  hoar, 
Which  lit  its  low  roof  by  the  torrent's  foam, 

And  pierced  its  lattice  through  the  vine-hung  bower ; 
But  one,  the  loveliest  o'er  the  land  that  rose, 
Then  first  looked  mournful  in  its  green  repose. 

For  Werner  sat  beneath  the  linden  tree, 

That  sent  its  lulling  whispers  through  his  door, 
Even  as  man  sits,  whose  heart  alone  would  be 

With  some  deep  care,  and  thus  can  Sad  no  more 
The  accustomed  joy  4.  all  which  evening  brings, 
Gathering  a  household  with  her  quiet  wings. 


384  RECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 

His  wife  stood  hushed  before  him— sad,  yet  mild 
In  her  beseeching  mien  !— he  marked  it  not. 

The  silvery  laughter  of  his  bright-haired  child 
Rang  from  the  greensward  round  the  sheltered  spot, 

But  seemed  unheard  ;  until  at  last  the  boy 

Raised  from  his  heaped-up  flowers  a  glance  of  joy, 

And  met  his  father's  face.  But  then  a  change 
Passed  swiftly  o'er  the  brow  of  infant  glee, 

And  a  quick  sense  of  something  dimly  strange 
Brought  him  from  play  to  stand  beside  the  knee 

So  often  climbed,  and  lift  his  loving  eyes 

That  shone  through  clouds  of  sorrowful  surprise. 

Then  the  proud  bosom  of  the  strong  man  shook ; 

But  tenderly  his  babe's  fair  mother  laid 
Her  hand  on  his,  and  with  a  pleading  look, 

Through  tears  half-quivering,  o'er  him  bent  and  saids 
"  What  grief,  dear  friend,  hath  made  thy  heart  its  prey- 
That  thou  shouldst  turn  thee  from  our  love  away  ? 

"  It  is  too  sad  to  see  thee  thus,  mv  friend  1 

Mark'st  thou  the  wonder  on  thy  boy's  fair  brow, 

Missing  the  smile  from  thine  I    Oh,  cheer  thee  I  besd. 
To  his  soft  arms :  unseal  thy  thoughts  e'en  now  I 

Thou  dost  not  kindly  to  withhold  the  share 

Of  tried  affection  in  thy  secret  care." 

He  looked  up  into  that  sweet  earnest  face, 
But  sternly,  mournfully :  not  yet  the  band 

Was  loosened  from  his  soul ;  its  inmost  place 

Not  yet  unveiled  by  love's  o'ermastering  hand. 
"Speak  low  1"  he  cried,  and  pointed  where  on  higf; 

The  white  Alps  glittered  through  the  solemn  sky : 

"  We  must  speak  low  amidst  our  ancient  hills 

And  their  free  torrents  ;  for  the  days  are  come 
When  tyranny  lies  couched  by  forest  rills, . 

And  meets  the  shepherd  in  l,is  mountain-home. 
Go,  pour  the  wine  of  our  own  grapes  in  fear — 
Keep  silence  by  the  hearth  1  its  foes  are  near. 

"  The  envy  of  the  oppressor's  eye  hath  been 

Upon  my  heritage.     I  sit  to-night 
Under  my  household  tree,  if  not  serene, 

Yet  with  the  faces  best  belowed  in  sight : 
To-morrow  eve  may  find  me  chained,  and  thee— 
How  can  I  bear  the  boy's  young  smiles  to  see?" 

The  bright  blood  left  that  youthful  mother's  cheek  ; 

Back  on  the  linden  stem  she  leaned  her  form ; 
And  her  lip  trembled  as  it  strove  to  speak, 

Like  a\frafl  harp-string  shaken  by  the  storm. 
Twas  but  a  moment,  and  the  faintnes*  passed, 
And  the  free  Alpine  spirit  woke  at  >ast. 

And  she,  that  ever  through  her  home  had  moved 
With  the  meek  Uwuffatfoiness  and  quiet  smite 


REOOED8  OF  WOMAN. 

Of  woman,  calmly  loving  and  beloved, 

And  timid  in  her  happiness  the  while. 
Stood  brightly  forth,  and  steadfastly,  that  hour — 
Her  clear  glance  kindling  into  sudden  power. 

Ay,  pale  she  stood,  but  with  an  eye  of  light. 
And  took  her  fair  child  to  her  holy  breast, 

And  lifted  her  soft  voice,  that  gathered  might 
As  it  found  language : — '  'Are  we  thus  oppressed  ? 

Then  must  we  rise  upon  our  mountain-sod, 

And  man  must  arm,  and  woman  can  on  God  I 

"  I  know  what  thou  wouldst  do ;— and  be  it  done  I 

Thy  soul  is  darkened  with  its  fears  for  me. 
Trust  me  to  Heaven,  my  husband  t  this,  thy  son, 

The  babe  whom  I  have  borne  thee,  must  be  free ! 
And  the  sweet  memory  of  our  pleasant  hearth 
May  well  give  strength— if  aught  be  strong  on  earth. 

"  Thou  hast  been  brooding  o'er  the  silent  dread 

Of  my  desponding  tears ;  now  lift  once  more, 
My  hunter  of  the  hills  I  thy  stately  head, 

And  let  thine  eagle  glance  my  joy  restore ! 
I  can  bear  all,  but  seeing  thee  subdued- 
Take  to  thee  back  thine  own  undaunted  mood. 

"Go  forth  beside  the  waters,  and  along 

The  chamois  paths,  and  through  the  forests  go  ; 
And  tell,  in  burning  words, "thy  tale  of  wrong 

To  the  brave  hearts  that  'midst  the  hamlets  glow. 
God  shall  be  with  thee,  my  beloved  I    Away  I 
Bless  but  thy  child,  and  leave  me— I  can  pray  I" 

He  sprang  up,  like  a  warrior  youth  awaking 
To  clarion  sounds  upon  the  ringing  air ; 

He  caught  her  to  his  breast,  while  proud  tears  breaking 
From  his  dark  eyes  fell  o'er  her  braided  hair ; 

And  "  worthy  art  thou,"  was  his  joyous  cry, 
"  That  man  for  thee  should  gird  himself  to  die  I 

My  bride,  my  wife,  the  mother  of  my  child  ! 

Now  shall  thy  name  be  armour  to  my  heart : 
And  this  our  land,  by  chains  no  more  defiled, 

Be  taught  of  thee  to  choose  the  better  part  ! 
I  go — thy  spirit  on  my  words  shall  dwell : 
Thy  gentle  voice  shall  stir  the  Alps.    Farewell  I" 

And  thus  they  parted,  by  the  quiet  lake, 

In  the  clear  starlight :  he  the  strength  to  rouse 

Of  the  free  hills ;  she,  thoughtful  for  his  sake, 
To  rock  her  child  beneath  the  whispering  bought, 

Singing  its  blue  half-curtained  eyes  to  sleep 

With  a  low  hymn,  amidst  the  stillness  deep. 


B36  RECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 


PROPERZIA  ROSSI. 

[Properria  Rossi,  •  celebrated  female  sculptor  of  Bologna,  possessed  also  of  talents  for  poetry 
and  music,  died  in  consequence  of  an  unrequited  attachment.  A  painting,  by  Duels,  represent; 
btr  showing  her  last  work,  a  basso-relievo  of  Ariadne,  to  a  Roman  knight,  the  object  of  her  afTtc 
tfou,  who  regards  it  with  indifference,] 

"  Tell  me  no  more,  no  more 
Of  my  soul's  lofty  gifts  t    Are  they  not  vain 
To  quench  its  haunting  thirst  for  happiness  ? 
Hare  I  not  loved,  and  striven,  and  failed  to  bind 
One  true  heart  unto  me,  whereon  my  own 
Might  find  a  resting-place,  a  home  for  all 
Its  burden  of  affections  ?    I  depart, 
Unknown,  though  Fame  goes  with  me  ;  I  must  loavs 
,  The  earth  unknown.    Yet  it  may  be  that  death 

Shall  give  my  name  a  power  to  win  such  tears 
As  would  have  made  life  precious." 

I. 

ONE  dream  of  passion  and  of  beauty  moie  t 
And  in  its  bright  fulfilment  let  me  pour 
My  soul  away  1    Let  earth  retain  a  trace 
Of  that  which  lit  my  being,  though  its  race 
Might  have  been  loftier  far.    Yet  one  more  dreem  I 
From  my  deep  spirit  one  victorious  gleam 
Ere  I  depart  1    For  thee  alone,  for  thee  I 
May  this  last  work,  this  farewell  triumph  be — 
Thou,  loved  so  vainly  I    I  would  leave  enshrined 
Something  immortal  of  my  heart  and  mind, 
That  yet  may  speak  to  thee  when  I  am  gone, 
Shaking  thine  inmost  bosom  with  a  tone 
Of  lost  affection — something  that  may  prove 
What  she  hath  been,  whose  melancholy  love 
On  thee  was  lavished  ;  silent  pang  and  tear, 
And  fervent  song  that  gushed  when  none  were  near, 
And  dream  by  night,  and  weary  thought  by  day, 
Stealing  the  brightness  from  her  life  away — 

While  thou Awake  I  not  yet  within  me  die  1 

Under  the  burden  and  the  agony 

Of  this  vain  tenderness — my  spirit,  wake  I 

Even  for  thy  sorrowful  affection's  sake. 

Live  1  in  thy  work  breathe  out  I — that  he  may  yet, 

Deling  sad  mastery  there,  perchance  regret 
Thine  unrequited  gift. 


It  comes  1  the  power 

Within  me  bom  flows  back — my  fruitless  dower 
That  could  not  win  me  love.    Yet  once  again 
I  greet  it  proudly,  with  its  rushing  train 
Of  glofious  images  :  they  throng — they  press- 
A  suddeu  joy  lights  up  my  loneliness — 
I  shall  not  perish  all ! 

The  bright  work  grows 
Beneath  my  hand,  unfolded  as  a  rose, 
Leaf  after  leaf,  to  beauty  ;  line  by  line, 
I  fix  my  thought,  heart,  soul,  to  burn,  to  shine, 


EEOOED8  OF  WOMAN.         -        ,         337 

Through  the  pale  marble's  veins.    It  grows  I— and  now 

I  give  my  own  life's  history  to  thy  brow, 

Forsaken  Ariadne  ! — thou  shalt  wear 

My  form,  my  lineaments ;  but  oh  I  more  fair, 

Touched  into  lovelier  being  by  the  glow 

Which  in  me  dwells,  as  by  the  summer  light 
All  things  are  glorified.    From  thee  my  woe 

Shall  yet  look  beautiful  to  meet  his  sight, 
When  I  am  passed  away,    Thou  art  the  mould, 
Wherein  I  pour  the  fervent  thoughts,  the  untold. 
The  self-consuming  1    Speak  to  him  of  me, 
Thou,  the  deserted  by  the  lonely  sea, 
With  the  soft  sadness  of  thine  earnest  eye- 
Speak  to  him,  lorn  one  1  deeply,  mournfully, 
Of  all  my  love  and  grief  I    Oh  !  could  I  throw 
Into  thy  frame  a  voice — a  sweet,  and  low, 
And  thrilling  voice  of  song !  when  he  came  nigh, 
To  send  the  passion  of  its  melody 
Through  his-pierced  bosom — on  its  tones  to  bear 
My  life's  deep  feeling,  as  the  southern  air 
Wafts  the  faint  myrtle's  breath— to  rise,  to  swell, 
To  sink  away  in  accents  of  farewell, 
Winning  but  one,  one  gush  of  tears,  whose  flow 
Surely  my  parted  spirit  yet  might  know, 
If  love  be  strong  as  death  I 

in. 

Now  fair  thou  art, 

Thou  form,  whose  life  is  of  my  burning  heart  I 
Yet  all  the  vision  that  within  me  wrought, 

I  cannot  make  thee.    Oh  I  I  might  have  given 
Birth  to  creations  of  far  nobler  thought ; 

I  might  have  kindled,  with  the  fire  of  heaven, 
Things  not  of  such  as  die  I    But  I  have  been 
Too  much  alone  1    A  heart  whereon  to  lean, 
With  all  these  deep  affections  that  o'erflow 
My  aching  soul,  and  find  no  shore  below ; 
An  eye  to  be  my  star  ;  a  voice  to  bring 
Hope  o'er  my  path  like  sounds  that  breathe  of  spring  r 
These  are  denied  me— dreamt  of  still  in  vain. 
Therefore  my  brief  aspirings  from  the  chain 
Are  ever  but  as  some  wild  fitful  song, 
Rising  triumphantly,  to  die  ere  long 
In  dirge-like  echoes. 

IV. 

Yet' the  world  will  see 
Little  of  this,  my  parting  work  i  in  thee. 

Thou  shalt  have  fame  1    Oh.  mockery  1  give  the  reed 
I  torn  storms  a  shelter— give  the  drooping  vine 
Something  round  which  Its  tendrils  may  entwine— 

Give  the  parched  flower  a  raindrop,  and  the  meed 
Of  love's  kind  words  to  woman  I    Worthless  fame  1 
Thafin  his  bosom  win?  not  for  my  name 
The  abiding  place  it  asieea  I    Yet  how  my  heart. 
In  its  own  fairy  world  of  song  and  art, 
Once  beat  for  praise  I    Are  those  high  longings  o'er  ? 
That  which  I  have  been  cajn  I  be  oo  more  ? 


338  RECORDS  OF  WOMAX. 

Never  I  oh,  never  more  I  though  still  thy  sky 
Be  blue  as  then,  my  glorious  Italy  1 
And  though  the  music,  whose  rich  breathings  fill 
Thin  air  with  soul,  be  wandering  past  me  still  ; 
And  though  the  mantle  of  thy  sunlight  streams 
Unchanged  on  forms,  instinct  with  poet-dreams. 
Never  I  oh,  never  more  I    Where  er  I  move, 
The  shadow  of  this  broken-hearted  love 
Is  on  me  and  around  I    Too  well  they  know 

Whose  life  is  all  within,  too  soon  and  well, 
|  When  there  the  blight  hath  settled  I    But  I  go 

Under  the  silent  wings  of  peace,  to  dwell ; 
From  the  slow  wasting,  from  the  lonely  pain, 
The  inward  burning  of  those  words — "  in  vain,* 

Seared  on  the  heart — I  go.     'Twill  soon  be  past 
Sunshine  and  song,  and  bright  Italian  heaven, 

And  thou,  oh  I  thou,  on  whom  my  spirit  cast 
Unvalued  wealth — who  knowest  not  what  was  given 
In  that  devotedness — the  sad,  and  deep, 
And  unrepaid — farewell  1    If  I  could  weep 
Oooe,  only  once,  beloved  one  I  on  thy  breast. 
Pouring  my  heart  forth  ere  1  sink  to  rest  I 
But  that  were  happiness  I — and  unto  me 
Earth's  gift  is  fame.    Yet  I  was  formed  to  be 
So  richly  blessed  !    With  thce  to  watch  the  sky, 
Speaking  not,  feeling  but  that  thou  wert  nigh  : 
With  thee  to  listen,  while  the  tones  of  song 
Swept  even  as  part  of  our  sweet  air  along— 
To  listen  silently  ;  with  thee  to  gaze 
On  forms,  the  deified  of  olden  days — 
This  had  been  joy  enough  ;  and  hour  by  hour 
From  its  glad  well-springs  drinking  life  and  power, 
How  had  my  spirit  soared,  and  made  its  fame 

A  glory  for  thy  brow  1    Dreams,  dreams  1 — the  file 
Burns  faint  within  me.    Yet  I  leave  my  name — 

As  a  deep  thrill  may  linger  on  the  lyre 
When  its  full  chords  are  hushed — awhile  to  live, 
And  one  day  haply  in  thv  heart  revive 
Sad  thoughts  of  me.     I  leave  it,  with  a  sound, 
A  spell  0  er  memory,  mournfully  profound  ; 
I  leave  it,  on  my  country's  air  to  dwell — 
Say  proudly  yet — "  'Twos  hers  who  loved  pte  weUf* 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 


GERTRUDE ;   OR,  FIDELITY  TILL  DEATH. 

[The  Baron  Von  der  Wart,  accused— though  It  Is  believed  unjustly— as  an  accomplice  in  the 
assassination  of  the  Emperor  Albert,  was  bound  alive  on  the  wheel,  and  attended  by  his  wife 
Gertrude,  throughout  his  last  agonizing  hours,  with  the  most  heroic  devotedness.  Her  own 
sufferings,  with  those  of  her  unfortunate  husband,  are  most  affect ingly  described  in  a  letter  which 
she  afterwards  addressed  to  a  female  friend,  and  which  was  published  some  years  ago,  at  Haarlem. 
In  a  book  entitled  Gertrude  Von  der  Wart ;  or,  Fidelity  unto  Death.} 

"  Dark  lowers  our  fate, 
And  terrible  the  storm  that  gathers  o'er  us  ; 
But  nothing,  till  that  latest  agoay 
Which  severs  thee  from  nature  shall  unloose 
This  fixed  and  sacred  hold.    In  thy  dark  prison-house, 
In  the  terrific  face  of  armed  law, 
Yea,  on  the  scaffold,  if  it  needs  must  be, 
I  never  will  forsake  thee." — JOANNA  BAILLIC. 

HER  hands  were  clasped,  her  dark  eyes  raised, 

The  breeze  threw  back  her  hair  ; 
Up  to  the  fearful  wheel  she  gazed — 

All  that  she  loved  was  there. 
The  night  was  round  her  clear  and  cold, 

The  holy  heaven  above, 
Its  pale  stars  watching  to  behold 

The  might  of  earthly  love. 

"  And  bid  me  not  depart,"  she  cried ; 
"  My  Rudolph,  say  not  so  I 

This  is  no  time  to  quit  thy  side- 
Peace  1  peace  I  I  cannot  go. 

Hath  the  world  aught  for  me  to  fear, 
When  death  is  on  thy  brow  ? 

The  world  1  what  means  it  ?    Mine  is  hen— 
I  will  not  leave  thee  now. 

11 1  have  been  with  thee  in  thine  hour 

Of  glory  and  of  bliss  ; 
Doubt  not  its  memory's  living  power 

To  strengthen  me  through  this  I 
And  thou,  mine  honoured  love  and  true, 

Bear  on,  bear  nobly  on  1 
We  have  the  blessed  Heaven  in  view, 

Whose  rest  shall  soon  be  won." 

And  were  not  these  high  words  to  flow 

From  woman's  breaking  heart  ? 
Through  all  that  night  of  bitterest  woe 

She  bore  her  lofty  part ; 
But  oh  I  with  such  a  glazing  eye, 

With  such  a  curdling  cheek — 
Love,  Love  1  of  mortal  agony 

Thou,  only  thou,  shouldst  speak  t 

The  wind  rose  high — but  with  it  rose 

Her  voice,  that  he  might  hear : — 
Perchance  that  dark  hour  brought  repose 

To  happy  bosoras  near.;. 


REOORDS  OF  WOMAN. 

While  she  sat  striving  with  despair 

Beside  his  tortured  form, 
And  pouring  her  deep  soul  in  prayer 

Forth  on  the  rushing  storm. 

She  wiped  the  death-damps  from  his  brov/ 

With  her  pale  bands  and  soft, 
Whose  touch  upon  the  lute-chords  low 

Had  stilled  his  heart  so  oft. 
She  spread  her  mantle  o'er  bis  breast, 

She  bathed  his  lips  with  dew, 
And  on  his  cheek  such  kisses  pressed. 

As  hope  and  joy  ne'er  knew. 

Oh  I  lovely  are  ye,  Love  and  Faith, 

Enduring  to  the  last ! 
She  had  her  meed — one  smile  in  death— 

And  his  worn  spirit  passed  I 
While  even  as  o'er  a  martyr's  grave 

She  knelt  on  that  sad  spot, 
^nd,  weeping,  blessed  the  God  who  gave 

Strength  to  forsake  it  not  I 


IMELDA. 

"  Some  times 

The  young  forgot  the  lessons  they  had  learnt, 
And  loved  when  they  should  hate — like  thee,  Imelda."* — fMy. 

"  Passa  la  bella  Donna,  e  par  che  donna." — TASSO. 

WE  have  the  myrtle's  breath  around  us  here, 

Amidst  the  fallen  pillars:  this  hath  been 
Some  Naiad's  fane  of  old.     How  brightly  clear. 

Flinging  a  vein  of  silver  o'er  the  scene, 
Up  through  the  shadowy  grass  the  fountain  wells, 

And  music  with  it,  gushing  from  beneath 
The  ivied  altar !    That  sweetmunnur  tells 

The  rich  wild  flowers  no  tale  of  woe  or  death ; 
Yet  once  the  wave  was  darkened,  and  a  stain 
Lay  deep,  and  heavy  drops — but  not  of  rain — 
On  the  dim  violets  by  its  marble  bed, 
And  the  pale  shining  water-lily's  head. 

Sad  is  that  legend's  truth. — A  fair  girl  met 

One  whom  she  loved,  by  this  lone  temple's  spring, 
Just  as  the  sUn  behind  the  pine-grove  set, 

And  eve's  low  voice  in  whispers  woke,  to  bring 
All  wanderers  home.    They  stood,  that  gentle  pair. 

With  the  blue  heaven  of  Italy  above, 
And  citron-odours  dying  on  the  air, 
And  light  leaves  trembling  round,  and  early  love 
Deep  in  each  breast.     What  recked  their  souls  of  strife 
Between  their  fathers  !     Unto  them  young  life 
Spread  out  the  treasures  of  its  vernal  years  ; 
And  if  they  wept,  they  wept  far  other  tears 
Tljan  the  cold  world  brings  forth.     They  stood  that  hour 
Speaking  ef bcpe:  wbflc  tree,  and  fount,  aftd  flower, 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN.  341 

And  star,  just  gleaming  through  the  cypress  bought, 
Seemed  holy  things,  as  records  of  their  TOWS. 

But  change  came  o'er  the  scene.    A  hurrying  tread 

Broke  on  the  whispery  shades.     Imelda  knew 
The  footstep  of  her  brother's  wrath,  and  fled 

Up  where  the  cedars  make  yon  avenue 
Dim  with  green  twilight :  pausing  there,  she  caught — 
Was  it  the  clash  of  swords  ?    A  swift  dark  thought 

Struck  down  her  lip's  rich  crimson  as  it  passed. 
And  from  her  eye  the  sunny  sparkle  took 
One  moment  with  its  tearfulness,  and  shook 

Her  slight  frame  fiercely,  as  a  stormy  blast 
Might  rock  the  rose.    Once  more,  -and  yet  once  more, 
She  stilled  her  heart  to  listen — all  was  o'er ; 
Sweet  summer -winds  alone  were  heard  to  sigh, 
Bearing  the  nightingale's  deep  spirit  by. 

That  night  Imelda's  voice  was  in  the  song — 
Lovely  it  floated  through  the  festive  throng 
Peopling  her  father's  halls.    That  fatal  night 
Her  eye  looked  starry  in  its  dazzling  light, 
And  her  cheek  glowed  with  beauty's  flushing  dyes, 
Like  a  rich  cloud  of  eve  in  southern  skies — 
A  burning,  ruby  cloud.    There  were,  whose  gaze 
Followed  her  form  beneath  the  clear  lamp's  blaze, 
And  marvelled  at  its  radiance.    But  a  few 
Beheld  the  brightness  of  that  feverish  hue 
With  something  of  dim  fear  ;  and  in  that  glance 

Found  strange  and  sudden  tokens  of  unrest, 
Startling  to  meet  amidst  the  mazy  dance, 

Where  thought,  if  present,  an  unbidden  guest, 
Comes  not  unmasked.     Howe'er  this  were,  the  time 
Sped  as  it  speeds  with  joy,  and  grief,  and  crime 
Alike  :  and  when  the  banquet's  hall  was  left 
Unto  its"  garlands  of  their  bloom  bereft ; 
When  trembling  stars  looked  silvery  in  their  wane, 
And  heavy  flowers  yet  slumbered,  once  again 
There  stole  a  footstep,  fleet,  and  light,  and  lone, 
Through  the  dim  cedar  shade — the  step  of  one 
That  started  at  a  leaf,  of  one  that  fled, 
Of  one  that  panted  with  some  secret  dread. 
What  did  Imelda  there  ?    She  sought  the  scene 
Where  love  so  late  with  youth  and  hope  bad  been. 
Bodings  were  on  her  soul ;  a  shuddering  thrill 
Ran  through  each  vein,  when  first  the  Naiad's  rill 
Met  her  with  melody — sweet  sounds  and  low  : 
Wt  hear  them  yet,  they  live  along  its  flow — 
Her  voice  is  music  lost  I    The  fountain-side 
She  gained — the  wave  flashed  forth — 'twas  darkly  dyed 
Even  as  from  warrior's  hearts  ;  and  on  its  edge, 

Amidst  the  fern,  and  flowers,  and  moss-tufts  deep, 
There  lay,  as  lulled  by  stream  and  rustling  sedge, 

A  youth,  a  graceful  youth.     "  Oh  1  dost  thou  sleep  ? 
Azzo  I"  she  cried,  "  my  Azzo  t  is  this  rest  ?" 
But  then  her  low  tones  faltered  : — "  On  thy  breast 
Is  the  stain — yes,  'tis  blood  !    And  that  cold  cheek- 
That  moveless  lip : — thou  dost  not  slumber? — speak. 


342  RECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 

Speak,  Azzo,  my  beloved  !    No  sound — no  breath  --• 

What  hath  come  thus  between  our  spirits  ?    Death  I 

Death? — I  but  dream — 1  dream  1"    And  there  she  stood, 

A  faint  fair  trembler,  gazing  first  on  blood, 

With  her  fair  arm  around  yon  cypress  thrown, 

Her  form  sustained  by  that  dark  stem  alone, 

And  fading  fast,  like  spell-struck  maid  of  old, 

Into  white  waves  dissolving,  clear  and  cold  ; 

When  from  the  grass  her  dimmed  eye  caught  a  gleam — 

'Twas  where  a  sword  lay  shivered  by  the  stream — 

Her  brother's  sword  ! — she  knew  it  ;  and  she  knew 

'Twas  with  a  venomed  point  that  weapon  slew  I 

Woe  for  young  love  !     But  love  is  strong.     There  can* 

Strength  upon  woman's  fragile  heart  and  frame  ; 

There  came  swift  courage  !     On  the  dewy  ground 

She  knelt,  with  all  her  dark  hair  floating  round 

Like  a  long  silken  stole  ;  she  knelt,  and  pressed 

Her  lips  of  glowing  life  to  Azzo's  breast, 

Drawing  the  poison  forth.     A  strange,  sad  sight  t 

Pale  death,  and  fearless  love,  and  solemn  night  I 

— So  the  moon  saw  them  last. 

The  mom  came  singing 

Through  the  green  forests  of  the  Apennines, 
With  all  her  joyous  birds  their  free  flight  winging, 

And  steps  and  voices  out  amongst  the  vines. 
What  found  that  dayspring  here  t    Two  fair  forms  laid 
Like  sculptured  sleepers ;  from  the  myrtle  shade 
Casting  a  gleam  of  beauty  o'er  the  wave, 
Still,  mournful,  sweet.     Were  such  things  for  the  grave 
Could  it  be  so  indeed  ?    That  radiant  girl, 
Decked  as  for  bridal  hours  ! — long  braids  of  pearl 
Amidst  her  shadowy  locks  were  faintly  shining, 

As  tears  might  shine,  with  melancholy  light ; 
And  there  was  gold  her  slender  waist  entwining  ; 

And  her  pale  graceful  arms — how  sadly  bright  1 
And  fiery  gems  upon  her  breast  were  lying, 
And  round  her  marble  brow  red  roses  dying. 
But  she  died  first ! — the  violet's  hue  had  spread 

O'er  her  sweet  eyelids  with  repose  oppressed  ; 
She  had  bowed  heavily  her  gentle  head, 

And  on  the  youth's  hushed  bosom  sunk  to  rest. 
So  slept  they  well  I— the  poison's  work  was  done  ; 
Love  with  true  bean  had  striven — but  Death  had  wtm. 


EDITH. 

A   TALK  OF  THB   WOODS. 

"  Du  Helligc  t  rufe  deln  Kind  zurvtck  ! 
Ich  habe  genosscn  das  Irdische  Glflck, 
Ich  habe  gelebt  und  geliebet."— WALLENSTEIH. 

THE  woods — oh  1  solemn  are  the  boundless  woods 
Of  the  great  western  world  when  day  declines. 

And  louder  sounds  the  roll  of  distant  floods, 
More  deep  tbe  rustling  of  the  ancient  pines. 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN.  343 

\Vhen  dimness  gathers  on  the  stilly  air, 

And  mystery  seems  o'er  every  leaf  to  brood, 
Awful  it  is  for  human  heart  to  bear 

The  might  and  burden  of  the  solitude  I 
Yet,  in  that  hour,  'midst  those  green  wastes,  there  sate 
One  young  and  fair ;  and  oh  I  how  desolate  I 
But  undismayed — while  sank  the  crimson  light, 
And  the  high  cedars  darkened  with  the  night 
Alone  she  sate ;  though  many  lay  around, 
They,  pale  and  silent  on  the  bloody  ground, 
Were  severed  from  her  need  and  from  her  woe, 

Far  as  death  severs  life.    O'er  that  wild  spot 
Combat  had  raged,  and  brought  the  valiant  low, 

And  left  them,  with  the  history  of  their  lot, 
Unto  the  forest  oaks — a  fearful  scene 
For  her  whose  home  of  other  days  had  been 
'Midst  the  fair  halls  of  England  I    But  the  love 

Which  filled  her  soul  was  strong  to  cast  out  fear  ; 
And  by  its  might  upborne  all  else  above, 

She  shrank  not — marked  not  that  the  dead  were  near. 
Of  him  alone  she  thought,  whose  languid  head 

Faintly  upon  her  wedded  bosom  feU  ; 
Memory  of  aught  but  him  on  earth  was  fled, 

While  heavily  she  felt  his  life-blood  well 
Fast  o'er  her  garments  forth,  and  vainly  bound 
With  her  torn  robe  and  hair  the  streaming  wound — 
Yet  hoped,  still  hoped  !    Oh  I  from  such  hope  how  long 

Affection  wooes  the  whispers  that  deceive, 
Even  when  the  pressure  of  dismay  grows  strong  I 

And  we,  that  weep,  watch,  tremble,  ne'er  believe 
The  blow  indeed  can  fall.    So  bowed  she  there 
Over  the  dying,  while  unconscious  prayer 
Filled  all  her  soul.    Now  poured  the  moonlight  down, 
Veining  the  pine-stems  through  the  foliage  brown, 
And  fire-flies,  kindling  up  the  leafy  place, 
Cast  fitful  radiance  o'er  the  warrior's  face, 
Whereby  she  caught  its  changes.    To  her  eye, 

The  eye  that  faded  looked  through  gathering  haze, 
Whence  love,  o'ermastering  mortal  agony, 

Lifted  a  long,  deep,  melancholy  gaze, 
When  voice  was  not ;  that  fond,  sad  meaning  passed — 
She  knew  the  fulness  of  her  woe  at  last  I 
One  shriek  the  forests  heard — and  mute  she  lay 
And  cold,  yet  clasping  still  the  precious  clay 
To  her  scarce-heaving  breast.    O  Love  and  Death  1 

Ye  have  sad  meetings  on  this  changeful  earth, 
M  any  and  sad  ! — but  airs  of  heavenly  breath 

Shall  melt  the  links  which  bind  you,  for  your  birth 
la  far  apart 

Now  light  of  richer  hue 

Than  the  moon  sheds,  came  flushing  mist  and  dew ; 
Tbe  pines  grew  red  with  morning ;  fresh  winds  played  \ 
Bright-coloured  birds  with  splendour  crossed  the  shade, 
Flitting  on  flower-like  wings ;  glad  murmurs  broke 

From  reed,  and  spray,  and  leaf— the  living  strings 
Of  earth's  jEolian  lyre,  whose  music  woke 

Into  young  life  and  joy  all  happy  things. 


344  RECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 

And  she,  too,  woke  from  that  long  dreamless  trance, 
The  widowed  Edith :  fearfully  her  glance 
Fell,  as  in  doubt,  on  faces  dark  and  strange. 
And  dusky  forms.    A  sudden  sense  of  change 
Flashed  o'er  her  spirit,  even  ere  memory  swept 
The  tide  of  anguish  back  with  thoughts  that  slept ; 
Yet  half  instinctively  she  rose,  and  spread 
Her  arms,  as  'twere  for  something  lost  or  fled, 
Then  faintly  sank  again.    The  forest-bough, 
With  all  its  whispers,  waved  not  o'er  her  now. 
Where  was  she  ?    'Midst  the  people  of  the  wild, 

By  the  red  hunter's  fire  :  an  aged  chief, 
Whose  home  looked  sad—  for  therein  played  no  child- 
Had  borne  her,  in  the  stillness  of  her  grief, 
To  that  lone  cabin  of  the  woods  ;  and  there, 
Won  by  a  form  so  desolately  fair, 

Or  touched  with  thoughts  from  some  past  sorrow  sprung, 
O'er  her  low  couch  an  Indian  matron  hung ; 
While  In  grave  silence,  yet  with  earnest  eye, 
The  ancient  warrior  of  the  waste  stood  by, 
Bending  in  watchfulness  his  proud  grey  head, 
And  leaning  on  his  bow. 

And  life  returned, 
Life,  but  with  all  its  memories  of  the  dead, 

To  Edith's  heart ;  and  well  the  sufferer  learned 
Her  task  of  meek  endurance — well  she  wore 
The  chastened  grief  that  humbly  can  adore 
'Midst  blinding  tears.     But  unto  that  old  pair, 
Even  as  a  breath  of  spring's  awakening  air, 
Her  presence  was  ;  or  as  a  sweet  wild  tune 
Bringing  back  tender  thoughts,  which  all  too  soon 
Depart  with  childhood.     Sadly  they  had  seen 

A  daughter  to  the  land  of  spirits  go  ;  . 
And  ever  from  that  time  her  fading  mien, 

And  voice,  like  winds  of  summer,  soft  and  low, 
Had  haunted  their  dim  years  :  but  Edith's  face 
Now  looked  in  holy  sweetness  from  her  place, 
And  they  again  seemed  parents.    Oh  !  the  joy, 
The  rich  deep  blessedness — though  earth's  alloy, 
Fear,  that  still  bodes,  be  there— of  pouring  forth 
The  heart's  whole  power  of  love,  its  wealth  and  worth 
Of  strong  affection,  in  one  healthful  flow, 
On  something  all  its  own !  that  kindly  glow, 
Which  to  shut  inward  is  consuming  pain, 
Gives  the  glad  soul  jts  flowering  time  again. 
When,  like  the  sunshine,  freed.    And  gentle  cares 
The  adopted  Edith  meekly  gave  for  theirs 
Who  loved  her  thus.     Her  spirit  dwelt  the  while 
With  the  departed,  and  her  patient  smile 
Spoke  of  farewells  to  earth  ;  yet  still  she  prayed 
E'en  o'er  her  soldier's  lowly  grave,  for  aid 
Out  purpose  to  fulfil,  to  leave  one  trace 
Brightly  recording  that  her  dwelling-place 
Had  been  among  the  wilds  ;  for  well  she  knew 
The  secret  whisper  of  her  bosom  true, 
Which  warned  her  hence. 

And  now,  by  many  a  word 
Linked  unto  moments  when  the  bean  was  stirred— 


RECORDS  OP  WOMAN.  845 

By  the  sweet  mournfulness  of  many  a  hymn, 
Sung  when  the  woods  at  eve  grew  hushed  and  dim- 
By  the  persuasion  of  her  fervent  eye, 
All  eloquent  with  childlike  piety — 
By  the  still  beauty  of  her  life  she  strove 
To  win  for  heaven,  and  heaven-born  truth,  the  love 
Poured  out  on  her  so  freely.    Nor  in  vain 
Was  that  soft-breathing  influence  to  enchain 
The  soul  in  gentle  bonds ;  by  slow  degrees 
Light  followed  on,  as  when  a  summer  breeze 
Parts  the  deep  masses  of  the  forest  shade, 
And  lets  the  sunbeam  through.    Her  voice  was  made 
Even  such  a  breeze ;  and  she,  a  lowly  guide, 
By  faith  and  sorrow  raised  and  purified, 
So  to  the  Cross  her  Indian  fosterers  led, 
Until  their  prayers  were  one.    When  morning  spread 
O'er  the  blue  lake,  and  when  the  sunset's  glow 
Touched  into  golden  bronze  the  cypress  bough, 
And  when  the  quiet  of  the  Sabbath  time 
Sank  on  her  heart,  though  no  melodious  chime 
Wakened  the  wilderness,  their  prayers  were  one. 
Now  might  she  pass  in  hope — her  work  was  done  I 
And  she  was  passing  from  the  woods  away — 
The  broken  flower  of  England  might  not  stay 
Amidst  those  alien  shades.     Her  eye  was  bright 
Even  yet  with  something  of  a  starry  light, 
But  her  form  wasted,  and  her  fair  young  cheek 
Wore  oft  and  patiently  a  fatal  streak, 
A  rose  whose  root  was  death.    The  parting  sigh 
Of  autumn  through  the  forests  had  gone  by, 
And  the  rich  maple  o'er  her  wanderings  lone 
Its  crimson  leaves  in  many  a  shower  had  strown, 
Flushing  the  air ;  and  winter's  blast  had  been 
Amidst  the  pines ;  and  now  a  softer  green 
Fringed  their  dark  boughs  :  for  spring  again  had  come. 
The  sunny  spring  1  but  Edith  to  her  home 
Was  journeying  fast.    Alas  1  we  think  it  sad 
To  part  with  life  when  all  the  earth  looks  glad 
In  her  young  lovely  things — when  voices  break     > 
Into  sweet  sounds,  and  leaves  and  blossoms  wake : 
Is  it  not  brighter,  then,  in  that  far  clime 
vVhere  graves  are  not,  nor  blights  of  changeful  time, 
If  here  such  glory  dwell  with  passing  blooms, 
Such  golden  sunshine  rest  around  the  tombs  ? 
So  thought  the  dying  one.    Twas  early  day, 
And  sounds  and  odours,  with  the  breezes'  play, 
Whispering  of  spring-time,  through  the  cabin  door. 
Unto  her  couch  life's  farewell  sweetness  bore. 
Then  with  a  look  where  all  her  hope  awoke, 
"  My  father  1"— to  the  grey-haired  chief  she  spoke — 
"  Knowest  thou  that  I  depart?"    "  I  know,  I  know," 
He  answered  mournfully,  "  that  thou  must  go 
To  thy  beloved,  my  daughter  1"    "  Sorrow  not 

For  me,  kind  mother  I"  with  meek  smiles  once  more 
She  murmured  in  low  tones :  "one  happy  lot 

Awaits  us,  friends  J  upon  the  better  shore ; 
For  we  have  prayed  together  in  one  trust, 
And  lifted  our  frail  spirits  from  the  dust 


S46  RECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 

To  God,  who  gave  them.     Lay  me  by  mine  own. 

Under  the  cedar  shade  :  where  he  is  gone, 

Thither  I  go.     There  will  my  sisters  be. 

And  the  dead  parents,  lisping  at  whose  knee 

My  childhood's  prayer  was  learned — the  Saviour's  prayer 

Which  now  ye  know — and  I  shall  meet  you  there. 

father  and  gentle  mother  I  ye  have  bound 

The  bruised  reed,  and  mercy  shall  be  found 

By  Mercy's  children."    From  the  matron's  eye 

Dropped  tears,  her  sole  and  passionate  reply. 

But  Edith  felt  them  not ;  for  now  a  sleep 

Solemnly  beautiful — a  stillness  deep, 

Fell  on  her  settled  face.    Then,  sad  and  slow, 

And  mantling  up  his  stately  head  in  woe, 

"  Thou'rt  passing  hence,"  he  sang,  that  warrior  old. 

In  sounds  like  those  by  plaintive  waters  rolled. 

"Thou'rt  passing  from  the  lake's  green  side, 

And  the  hunter's  hearth  away : 
For  the  time  of  flowers,  for  the  summer's  pride, 

Daughter  I  thou  canst  not  stay. 

"  Thou'rt  journeying  to  thy  spirit's  home, 

Where  the  skies  are  ever  clear : 
The  corn-month's  golden  hours  will  come, 

But  they  shall  not  find  thee  here. 

"  And  we  shall  miss  thy  voice,  my  bird  1 

Under  our  whispering  pine ; 
Music  shall  'midst  the  leaves  be  heard, 

But  not  a  song  like  thine. 

"  A  breeze  that  roves  o'er  stream  and  hill. 

Telling  of  winter  gone, 
Hath  such  sweet  falls — yet  caught  we  still 

A  farewell  in  its  tone. 

1  But  thou,  my  bright  one  I  thou  shalt  be 

Where  farewell  sounds  are  o'er ; 
Thou,  in  the  eyes  thou  lovest,  shalt  see 
No  fear  of  parting  more. 

"  The  mo  sy  grave  thy  tears  have  wet, 
And  the  wind's  wild  meanings  by, 

Thou  with  thy  kindred  shalt  forget, 
'Midst  flowers — not  such  as  die. 

"The  shadow  from  thy  brow  shall  melt 

.The  sorrow  from  thy  strain, 
But  where  thine  earthly  smile  hath  dwelt 

Our  heart  shall  thirst  in  vain. 

"  Dim  will  our  cabin  be,  and  lone, 

When  thou,  its  light,  art  fled  ; 
Vet  hath  thy  step  the  pathway  shown 

Unto  the  happy  dead. 

11  And  we  will  follow  thee,  pur"guid*  I 
And  join  that  shining  band ; 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN.  847 

Thou'rt  passing  from  the  lake's  green  ride- 
Go  to  the  better  land  1" 

The  song  had  ceased— the  listeners  caught  no  breatD  t 
That  lovely  sleep  had  melted  into  death. 


.     THE  INDIAN  CITY.. 

"  What  deep  wounds  ever  closed  without  a  sear  r 
The  heart  s  bleed  longest,  and  but  heal  to  wear 
That  which  disfigures  it  —  Childe  Harold. 


ROYAL  in  splendour  went  down  the  day 

On  the  plain  where  an  Indian  city  lay, 

With  its  crown  of  domes  o  er  the  forest  high, 

Red,  as  if  fused  in  the  burning  sky  ; 

And  its  deep  groves  pierced  by  the  rays  which  mode 

A  bright  stream's  way  through  each  long  arcade, 

Till  the  pillared  vaults  of  the  banian  stood 

Like  torch-lit  aisles  midst  the"  solemn  wood  ; 

And  the  plantain  glittered  with  leaves  of  gold, 

As  a  tree  'midst  the  genii  gardens  old, 

And  the  cypress  lifted  a  blazing  spire, 

And  the  stems  of  the  cocoas  were  shafts.of  fire. 

Many  a  white  pagoda's  gleam 

Slept  lovely  round  upon  lake  and  stream. 

Broken  alone  by  the  lotus  flowers, 

As  they  caught  the  glow  of  the  sun's  last  hours, 

Like  rosy  wine  in  their  cups,  and  shed 

Its  glory  forth  on  their  crystal  bed. 

Many  a  graceful  Hindoo  maid, 

With  the  water-vase  from  the  palmy  shade, 

Came  gliding  light  as  the  desert's  roe, 

Down  marble  steps,  to  the  tanks  below ; 

And  a  cool  sweet  plashing  was  ever  hjard, 

As  the  molten  glass  of  the  wave  was  stirred. 

And  a  murmur,  thrilling  the  scented  air, 

Told  where  the  Bramin  bowed  in  prayer. 

— There  wandered  a  noble  Moslem  boy 

Through  the  scene  of  beauty  in  breathless  joy  ; 

He  gazed  where  the  stately  city  rose, 

Like  a  pageant  of  clouds,  in  its  red  repose ; 

He  turned  where  birds  through  the  gorgeous  gloom 

Of  the  woods  went  glancing  on  starry  plume  ; 

He  tracked  the  brink  of  the  shining  lake, 

By  the  tall  canes  feathered  in  tuft  and  brake; 

Till  the  path  he  chose,  in  its  mazes,  wound 

To  the  very  bean  of  the  holy  ground. 

And  there  lay  the  water,  as  if  enshrined 
In  a  rocky  urn,  from  the  sun  and  wind. 
Bearing  :the  hues  of  the  grove  on  high, 
Far  down  through  its  dark  still  purity. 
The  flood  beyond,  to  the  fiery  west, 
Spread  out  luce  a  metal  mirror's  breast : 


348  RECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 

But  that  lone  bay  in  its  dimness  deep, 
Seemed  made  for  the  swimmer's  joyous  leap, 
For  the  stag  athirst  from  the  noontide's  chase, 
For  all  free  things  of  the  wild  wood's  race. 

Like  a  falcon's  glance  on  the  wide  blue  sky, 
Was  the  kindling  flash  of  the  boy's  glad  eye; 
Like  a  sea-bird's  flight  to  the  foaming  wave, 
From  the  shadowy  bank  was  the  bound  he  gave ; 
Dashing  the  spray-drops,  cold  and  white, 
O'er  the  glossy  leaves  in  its  young  delight, 
And  bowing  his  locks  to  the  waters  clear- 
Alas  1  he  dreamt  not  that  fate  was  near. 

His  mother  looked  from  her  tent  the  while, 
O'er  heaven  and  earth  with  a  quiet  smile  : 
She,  on  her  way  unto  Mecca's  fane, 
Had  stayed  the  march  of  her  pilgrim  train, 
i          Calmly  to  linger  a  few  brief  hours 

In  the  Bramin  city's  glorious  bowers  ; 

For  the  pomp  of  the  forest,  the  wave's  bright  fall, 

The  red  gold  of  sunset— she  loved  them  all. 


The  moon  rose  clear  in  the  splendour  given 

To  the  deep-blue  night  of  an  Indian  heaven  ; 

The  boy  from  the  high-arched  woods  came  back — 

Oh  1  what  had  he  met  in  his  lonely  track  ? 

The  serpent's  glance  through  the  long  reeds  bright/ 

The  arrowy  spring  of  the  tiger's  might  ? 

No  I  yet  as  one  by  a  conflict  worn, 

With  his  graceful  hair  all  soiled  and  torn, 

And  a  gloom  on  the  lids  of  his  darkened  eye, 

And  a  gash  on  his  bosom — he  came  to  die  1 

He  looked  for  the  face  to  his  young  heart  sweet, 

And  found  it,  and  sank  at  his  mother's  feet. 

"  Speak  to  me  !  whence  does  the  swift  blood  run  ? 

What  hath  befallen  thee,  my  child,  my  son?" 

The  mist  of  death  on  his  brow  lay  pale, 

But  his  voice  just  lingered  to  breathe  the  tale, 

Murmuring  faintly  of  wrongs  and  scorn, 

And  wounds  from  the  children  of  Brahma  borne 

This  was  the  doom  for  a  Moslem  found 

With  a  foot  profane  on  their  holy  ground— 

This  was  for  sullying  the  pure  waves,  free 

Unto  them  alone — 'twas  their  god's  decree. 

A  change  came  o'er  his  wandering  look — 
The  mother  shrieked  not  then  nor  shook  :         , 
Breathless  she  knelt  in  her  son's  young  blood 
Rending  her  mantle  to  stanch  its  flood  ; 
But  it  rushed  like  a  river  which  none  may  stay 
Bearing  a  flower  to  the  deep  away. 
That  which  pur  love  to  the  earth  would  chain 
Fearfully  striving  with  heaven  in  vain — 
That  which  fades  from  us  while  yet  we  hold, 
Clasped  to  our  bosoms,  its  mortal  mould. 


MECOEDS  OF  WOMAN.  349 

Was  fleeting  before  her,  afar  and  fast ; 

One  moment— the  soul  from  the  face  had  passed  1 

Are  there  no  words  for  that  common  woe? 

Ask  of  the  thousands  its  depth  that  know ! 

The  boy  had  breathed,  in  his  dreaming  rest, 

Like  a  low-voiced  dove,  on  her  gentle  breast ; 

He  had  stood,  when  she  sorrowed,  beside  her  knee, 

Painfully  stilling  bis  quick  heart's  glee ; 

He  had  kissed  from  her  cheek  the  widow's  tears, 

With  the  loving  lip  of  his  inTant  years : 

He  had  smiled  o'er  her  path  like  a  bright  spring  day— 

Now  in  his  blood  on  the  earth  he  lay  1 

Murdered/    Alas !  and  we  love  so  well    . 

In  a  world  where  anguish  like  this  can  dwell  I 

She  bowed  down  mutely  o'er  her  dead— 
They  that  stood  round  her  watched  in  dread ; 
They  watched— she  knew  not  they  were  by—- 
Her soul  sat  veiled  in  its  agony. 
On  the  silent  lips  she  pressed  no  kiss — 
Too  stern  was  the  grasp  of  her  pangs  for  this  : 
She  shed  no  tear,  as  her  face  bent  low 
O'er  the  shining  hair  of  the  lifeless  brow ; 
She  looked  but  into  the  half-shut  eye 
With  a  gaze  that  found  there  no  reply, 
And,  shrieking,  mantled  her  hrad  from  sight, 
And  fell,  struck  down  by  her  sorrow's  might. 

And  what  deep  change,  what  work  of  power, 
Was  wrought  on  her  secret  soul  that  hour? 
How  rose  the  lonely  one  ?    She  rose 
Like  a  prophetess  from  dark  repose  1 
And  proudly  flung  from  her  face  the  veil, 
And  shook  the  hair  from  her  forehead  pale, 
And  'midst  her  wondering  handmaids  stood, 
With  the  sudden  glance  of  a  dauntless  mood- 
Ay,  lifting  up  to  the  midnight  sky 
A  brow  in  its  regal  passion  high, 
With  a  close  and  rigid  grasp  she  pressed 
The  blood-stained  robe  to  her  heaving  breast, 
And  said — "  Not  yet,  not  yet  I  weep, 
Not  yet  my  spirit  shall  sink  or  sleep  1 
Not  till  yon  city,  in  ruins  rent, 
Be  piled  for  its  victim's  monument. 
Cover  his  dust !  bear  it  on  before ! 
It.shall  visit  those  temple  gates  onoe  more." 

And  away  in  the  train  of  the  dead  she  turned, 
The  strength  of  her  step  was  the  heart  that  burned ; 
And  the  Bramin  groves  in  the  starlight  smiled, 
As  the  mother  passed  with  her  slaughtered  child . 

ra. 

Hark  1  a  wild  sound  of  the  deserta  horn 
Through  the  woods  round  the  Indian  city  borne, 
A  peal  of  the  cymbal  and  tambour  afar — 
War  1  'tis  the  gathering  of  Moslem  war  I 


360  REOOBD8  OF  WOMAN. 

The  Bramin  looked  from  the  leaguered  towers- 
He  saw  the  wfld  archer  amidst  his  bowers  ; 
And  the  lake  that  flashed  through  the  plantain  shade, 
As  the  light  of  the  lances  along  it  played ; 
And  the  canes  that  shook  as  if  winds  were  high, 
When  the  fiery  steed  of  the  waste  swept  by ; 
And  the  camp  as  it  lay  like  a  billowy  sea, 
Wide  round  the  sheltering  banian-tree. 

There  stood  one  tent  from  the  rest  apart— 
That  was  the,  place  of  a  wounded  heart. 
Oh  1  deep  is  a  wounded  heart,  and  strong 
A  voice  that  cries  against  mighty  wrong ; 
And  full  of  death  as  a  hot  wind's  blight, 
Doth  the  ire  of  a  crushed  affection  light. 

Maimuna  from  realm  to  realm  had  passed, 

And  her  tale  had  rung  like  a  trumpet's  blast 

There  had  been  words  from  her  pale  lips  poured, 

Each  one  a  spell  to  unsheath  the  sword. 

The  Tartar  had  sprung  from  his  steed  to  hear, 

And  the  dark  chief  of  Araby  grasped  his  spear, 

Till  a  chain  of  long  lances  begirt  the  wall, 

And  a  vow  was  recorded  that  doomed  its  fall. 

Back  with  the  dust  of  her  son  she  came, 

When  her  voice  had  kindled  that  lightning  flame ,' 

She  came  in  the  might  of  a  queenly  foe, 

Banner,  and  javelin,  and  bended  bow ; 

But  a  deeper  power  on  her  forehead  sate — 

There  sought  the  warrior  his  star  of  fate : 

Her  eye's  wild  flash  through  the  tented  line 

Was  hailed  as  a  spirit  and  a  sign, 

And  the  faintest  tone  from  her  lip  was  caught 

As  a  sybil's  breath  of  prophetic  thought 

— Vain,  bitter  glory  ! — the  gift  of  grief, 

That  lights  up  vengeance  to  find  relief, 

Transient  and  faithless  1  it  cannot  fill 

So  the  deep  void  of  the  heart,  nor  still 

The  yearning  left  by  a  broken  tie, 

That  haunted  fever  of  which  we  die  I 

Sickening  she  turned  from  her  sad  renown, 
As  a  king  in  death  might  reject  his  crown, 
Slowly  the  strength  of  the  walls  gave  way — 
She  withered  faster  from  day  to  day ; 
All  the  proud  sounds  of  that  bannered  plain, 
To  stay  the  flight  of  her  soul  were  vain ; 
Like  an  eagle  caged,  it  had  striven,  and  wont 
The  frail  dust,  ne'er  for  such  conflicts  born, 
Till  the  bars  were  rent,  and  the  hour  was  come1 
For  its  fearful  rushing  through  darkness  home. 

The  bright  sun  set  in  his  pomp  and  pride, 
As  on  that  eve  when  the  fair  boy  died  : 
She  gazed  from  her  couch,  and  a  softness  fell 
O'er  her  •weary  heart  with  the  day's  farewell ; 
She  spoke,  and  her  voice,  in  its  dying  tone, 
Had  au  echo  of  feelings  that  long  seemed  flswnL 


UEOOBDS  OF  WOMAN.  851 

She  murmured  a  low,  sweet  cradle-song, 
Strange  'midst  the  din  of  a  warrior  throng—        t 
A  song  of  the  time  when  her  boy's  young  cheek 
Had  glowed  on  her  breast  in  its  slumber  meek. 
But  something  which  breathed  from  that  mournful  strain 
Sent  a  fitful  gust  o'er  her  soul  again  ; 
And  starting,  as  il  from  a  dream,  she  cried — 
"Give  him  proud  burial  at  my  side  1 
There,  by  yon  lake,  where  the  palm-boughs  wave, 
When  the  temples  are  fallen,  make  there  our  grave." 
And  the  temples  fell,  though  thq  spirit  passed, 
That  stayed  not  for  victory's  voice  at  last ; 
When  the  day  was  won  for  the  martyr  dead, 
For  the  broken  .heart  and  the  bright  blood  shod.. 

Through  the  fates  of  the  vanquished  the  Tartar  eteed 

Bore  in  the  avenger  with  foaming  speed ; 

Free  swept  the  flame  through  the  idol  fanes, 

And  the  streams  glowed  red,  as  from  warrrior  vein? ; 

And  the  sword  of  the  Moslem,  let  loose  to  slay, 

Like  the  panther  leapt  on  its  flying  prey, 

Till  a  city  of  ruin  begirt  the  shade 

Where  the  boy  and  his  mother  at  rest  were  laid* 

Palace  and  tower  on  that  plain  were  left, 

Like  fallen  trees  by  the  lightning  cleft ;          v 

The  wild  vine  mantled  the  stately  square, 

The  Rajah's  throne  was  the  serpent's  lair, 

And  the  jungle  grass  o'er  the  altar  sprung— 

This  was  the  work  of  one  deep  bean  wrung  I 


THE  PEASANT  GIRL  OF  THE  RHONE. 

— "  There  is  but  one  place  in  the  world-* 
Thither,  where  he  lies  burled  I 

*          *          *          «          • 
•There,  there  ;  •  al}  that  still  remains  of  him : 
That  single  spot  is  the.  whole  earth  to  me." 

COLERIDGE'S  Wallemtcfa 

*  Ala*  I  our  young  affections  run  to  waste 
Or  water  but  the  desert."— Childt  Harold. 

THERE  went  a  warrior's  funeral  through  the  night, 

A  waving  of  tall  plumes,  a  ruddy  light 

Of  torches,  fitfully  and  wildly  thrown 

From  the  high  woods,  along  the  sweeping  Rhone, 

Far  down  the  waters.    Heavily  and  dead, 

Under  the  moaning  trees,  the  horse-hoof's  tread 

In  muffled  sounds  upon  the  greensward  fell, 

As  chieftains  passed ;  and  solemnly  the  swell 

Of  the  deep  requiem,  o'er  the  gleaming  river 

Borne  with  the  gale,  and  with  the  leaves'  low  shiver, 

Floated  and  died.     Proud  mourners  there,  yet  pale, 

Wore  man's  mute  anguish  sternly ; — but  of  ontt 
Oh,  who  shall  speak  ?    What  words  his  brow  unveil? 

A  father  following  to  the  grave  his  son  1— 
•f-hat  Is  no  grief  to  picture  I    Sad  and  slow, 
•  Through  the  wood-shadows,  moved  the  knightly  train, 


852       ••  > ..  RECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 

With  youth's  fair  form  upon  the  bier  laid  low — 

Fair  even  when  found  amidst  fhe  bloody  slain* 
Stretched  by  its  broken  lance.    They  reached  the  looe 

Baronial  chapel,  where  the  forest-gloom 
Fell  heaviest,  for  the  massy  boughs  had  grown 

Into  thick  archways,  as  to  vault  the  tomb. 
Stately  they  trode  the  hollow-ringing  aisle, 
A  strange  deep  echo  shuddered  through  the  pile, 
Till  crested  heads  at  last  in  silence  bent 
Round  the  De  Coucis"  antique  monument, 
When  dust  to  dust  was  given : — and  Aymer  slept 

Beneath  the  drooping  banners  of  bis  line, 
Whose  broidered  folds  the  Syrian  wind  had  swept 

Proudly  and  oft  o'er  fields  of  Palestine, 
So  the  sad  rite  was  closed.    The  sculptor  gave 
Trophies,  ere  long,  to  deck  that  lordly  grave  ; 
And  the  pale  image  of  a  youth,  arrayed 
As  warriors  are  for  fight,  but  calmly  laid 

In  slumber  on  his  shield.    Then  all  was  dont— 
And  still  around  the  dead.    His  name  was  heard 
Perchance  when  wine-cups  flowed,  and  hearts  were  stirred 

By  some  old  song,  or  tale  of  battle  won 
Told  round  the  hearth.    But  in  his  father's  breast 
Manhood's  high  passions  woke  again,  and  pressed 
On  to  their  mark ;  and  in  his  friend's  clear  eye 
There  dwelt  no  shadow  of  a  dream  gone  by  ; 
And  with  the  brethren  of  his  fields,  the  feast 
Was  gay  as  when  the  voice  whose  sounds  had  ceased 
Mingled  with  theirs.    Even  thus  life's  rushing  tide 
Bears  back  affection  from  the  grave's  dark  side  ; 
Alas !  to  think  of  this !— the  heart's  void  place 

Filled  up  so  soon  I — so  like  a  summer  cloud, 
All  that  we  loved  to  pass  and  leave  no  trace  I — 

He;  lay  forgotten  in  his  early  shroud. 
Forgotten  ? — not  of  all !    The  sunny  smile 
Glancing"  in  play  o'er  that  proud  lip  erewhile, 
And  the  dark  locks,  whose  breezy  waving  threw 
A  gladness  round,  whene'er  their  shade  withdrew 
From  the  bright  brow  ;  and  all  the  sweetness  lying 

Within  that  eagle  eye's  jet  radiance  deep,^ 
And  all  the  music  with  that  young  voice  dying, 

Whose  joyous  echoes  made  the  quick  heart  leap 
As  at  a  hunter's  bugle — these  things  lived 
Still  in  one  breast,  whose  silent  love  survived 
The  pomps  of  kindred  sorrow.    Day  by  dar, 
On  Aymer's  tomb  fresh  flowers  in  garlands  lay, 
Through  the  dim  fane  soft  summer  odours  breathing, 
And  all  the  pale  sepulchral  trophies  wreathing, 
And  with  a  flush  of  deeper  brilliance  glowing 
In  the  rich  light,  like  molten  rubies  flowing 
Through  storied  windows  down.    The  violet  there 

Might  speak  of  love — a  secret  love  and  lowly ; 
And  the  rose  image  all  things  fleet  and  fair ; 

And  the  faint  passion-flower,  the  sad  and  holy, 
Tell  of  diviner  hopes.     But  whose  light  hand, 
As  for  an  altar,  wove. the  radiant  band ? 
Whose  gentle  nurture  brought,  from  hidden  deDi, 
That  gem-tike  wealth  of  blossoms  and  sweet  bells, 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN.  85b 

To  blush  through  every  season  ?    Blight  and  chifl 
Might  touch  the  changing  woods  ;  but  duly  still 
For  years  those  gorgeous  coronals  renewed, 

And  brightly  clasping  marble  spear  and  helm, 
Even  through  mid-winter,  filled  the  solitude 

With  a  strange  smile — a  glow  of  summer's  realm. 
Surely  some  fond  and  fervent  heart  was  pouring 
Its  youth's  vain  worship  on  the  dust,  adoring 
In  lone  devotedness  I 

One  spring  morn  rose, 

And  found,  within  that  tomb's  proud  shadow  laid — 
Oh  I  not  as  'midst  the  vineyards,  to  repose 

From  the  fierce  noon — a  dark-haired  peasant  maid. 
Who  could  reveal  her  story  ?    That  still  face 

Had  once  been  fair ;  for  on  the  clear  arched  brow 
And  the  curved  lip  there  lingered  yet  such  grace 

As  sculpture  gives  its  dreams  ;  and  long  and  low 
The  deep  black  lashes,  o'er  the  half-shut  eye — 
For  death  was  on  its  lids— fell  mournfully. 
But  the  cold  cheek  was  sunk,  the  raven  hair 
Dimmed,  the  slight  form  all  wasted,  as  by  care. 
Whence  came  that  early  blight?    Her  kindred's  place 
Was  not  amidst  the  high  De  Couci  race  ; 
Yet  there  her  shrine  had  been  !    She  grasped  a  wreath— 
The  tomb's  last  garland  1— This  was  love  in  death. 


INDIAN  WOMAN'S  DEATH-SONG. 

'  f  An  Indian  woman,  driven  to  despair  by  her  husband's  desertion  of  her  for  another  wife, 
catered  a  canoe  with  her  children,  and  rowed  it  down  the  Mississippi  towards  a  cataract.  Het 
voice  was  heard  from,  the  shore  singing  a  mournful  death-song,  until  overpowered  by  the  sound  of 
the  waters  in  which  she  perished.  The  tale  is  related  in  Long's  "  Expedition  to  the  Source  ol 
St  Peter's  River."] 

"  Non,  je  ne  puis  vivre  avec  un  coeur  bris&  II  faut  que  je  retrouve  la  joie,  et  que  je  m'uniss* 
(tux  eiprits  hbres  de  I'air."— Bride  of  Messina,  translated  by  MADAME  DE  STAEL. 

"Let  not  my  child  be  a  girl,  for  very  sad  is  the  life  of  a  woman. "—  Tht  Prairit. 

DOWN  a  broad  river  of  the  western  wilds, 
Piercing  thick  forest-glooms,  a  light  canoe 
Swept  with  the  current :  fearful  was  the  speed 
Of  the  frail  bark,  as  by  a  tempest's  wing 
Born  leaf-like  on  to  where  the-mist  of  spray 
Rose  with  the  cataract's  thunder.    Yet  within, 
Proudly,  and  dauntlessly,  and  all  alone, 
Save  that  a  babe  lay  sleeping  at  her  breast, 
A  woman  stood  1    Upon  her  Indian  brow 
Sat  a  strange  gladness,  and  her  dark  hair  waved 
As  if  triumphantly.    She  pressed  her  child, 
In  its  bright  slumber,  to  her  beating  heart, 
And  lifted  her  sweet  voice,  that  rose  awhile 
Above  the  sound  of  waters,  high  and  clear, 
Wafting  a  wild  proud  strain — a  song  of  death. 

**  ROLL  swiftly  tor  the  spirit's  land,  thou  mighty  stream  and  free  I 
Father  of  ancient  waters,  roll  1  and  bear  our  lives  with  thee  I 
The  weary  bird  that  storms  have  tossed  would  seek  the  sunshine's  calm, 
And  the  deer  that  bath  the  arrow's  hurt  flies  to  the  woods  of  balm. 


354  RECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 

"  Rofl  on  !— my  warrior's  eye  hath  looked  upon  another's  face, 
And  mine  hath  faded  from  his  soul,  as  fades  a  moonbeam's  trace  i 
My  shadow  comes  not  o'er  his  path,  my  whisper  to  his  dream, 
He  flings  away  the  broken  reed.    Roll  swifter  yet,  thou  stream  I 

"  The  voice  that  spoke  of  other  days  is  hushed  within  his  breast, 
But  mine  its  lonely  music  haunts,  and  will  not  let  me  rest ; 
It  sings  a  low  and  mournful  song  of  gladness  that  is  gone— 
1  cannot  live  without  that  light.    Father  of  waves !  roll  on ! 

"  Will  he  not  miss  the  bounding  step  that  met  him  from  the  chase? 
The  heart  of  love  that  made  his  home  an  ever-sunny  place  ? 
The  hand  that  spread  the  hunter's  board,  and  decked  his  couch  of  yort  ?- 
He  will  not  1    Roll,  dark  foaming  stream,  on  to  the  better  shore  1 

-"  Some  blessed  fount  amidst  the  woods  of  that  bright  land  must  flow, 
Whose  waters  from  my  soul  may  lave  the  memory  of  this  woe  ; 
Some  gentle  wind  must  whisper  there,  whose  breath  may  waft  away 
The  burden  of  the  heavy  night,  the  sadness  of  the  day. 

' "  And  thou,  my  babe  !  though  born,  like  me,  for  woman's  weary  lot,. 
Smile  1 — tp  that  wasting  of  the  heart,  my  own  !  I  leave  thee  not ; 
Too  bright  a  thing  art  ihou  to  pine  in  aching  love  away — 
Thy  mother  bears  thee  far,  young  fawn  1  from  sorrow  and  decay. 

"  She  bears  thee  to  the  glorious  bowers  where  none  are  heard  to  weep, 
And  where  the  unkind  one  hath  no  power  again  to  trouble  sleep  ; 
And  where  the  soul  shall  find  its  youth,  as  wakening  from  a  dream  : 
One  moment,  and  that  realm  is  ours.    On,  on,  dark  rolling  stream  1" 


JOAN  OF  ARC  IN  RHEIMS. 

I"  Jeanne  d'Are  avai^ea  la  joie  d«  voir  a  Chalons  quelques  amis  de  son  enfance.  Une  jote  pkn 
Ineffable  encore  I'attendait  a  Kheims,  au  sein  de  son  triomphe  :  Jacques  d'Arc,  son'  pere,  y  M 
trouva,  aussitSt  que  de  troupes  de  Charles  VII.  y  fursnt  entrees ;  et  conune  les  deux  freres  de 
notre  heroine  1'avaient  accompagnee,  elle  se  vit  pour  un  instant  au  milieu  de  sa  famille,  dans  tes 
bras  d'un  pere  vertueux." — Vie  Of  Jeanne  if  Arc.} 

"Thou  hast  a  charmed  cup,  O  Fame  I 
A  draught  that  mantles  high,        " 
And  seems  to  lift  this  earth-born  frame 

Above  mortality : 
Away !  to  me — a  woman — bring 
Sweet  waters  from  affection's  spring !" 

THAT  was  a  joyous  day  in  Rheims  of  old, 
When  peal  on  peal  of  mighty  music  rolled 
Forth  from  her  thronged  cathedral ;  while  around, 
A  multitude,  whose  billows  made  no  sound, 
Chained  to  a  hush  of  wonder,  though  elate 
With  victory,  listened  at  their  temple's  gate. 
And  what  was  done  within?    Within,  the  light, 

Through  the  rich  gloom  of  pictured  windows  flowing, 
t Tinged  with  soft  awfulness  a  stately  sight — 

The  chivalry  of  France  their  proud  heads  bowing 
In  martial  vassalage  1    While  'midst  that  ring, 
And  shadowed  by  ancestral  tombs,  a  king 
Received  his  birthright's  crown.     For  this,  the  byme 

Swelled  out  like  rushing  waters,  and  the  day 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN.  355 

With  the  sweet  censer's  misty  breath  grew  dim. 
As  through  long  aisles  it  floated  o'er  the  array 
Of  arms  and  sweeping  stoles.     But  who,  alone 
And  unapproached,  beside  the  altar  stone, 
With  the  white  banner  forth  like  sunshine  streaming, 
And  the  gold  helm  through  clouds  of  fragrance  gleaming. 
Silent  and  radiant  stood  ?    The  helm  was  raised, 
And  the  fair  face  revealed,  that  upward  gazed, 
Intensely  worshipping — a  still,  clear  face, 
Youthful,  but  brightly  solemn !    Woman's  cheek 
And  brow  were  there,  in  deep  devotion  meek, 
Yet  glorified,  with  inspiration's  trace 
On  its  pure  paleness  ;  while,  enthroned  above, 
The  pictured  Virgin,  with  her  smile  of  love, 
Seemed  bending  o'er  her  votaress.    That  slight  form  l 
Was  that  the  leader  through  the  battle  storm  ? 
Had  the  soft  light  in  that  adoring  eye 
Guided  the  warrior  where  the  swords  flashed  high  ? 
'Twas  so,  even  so  1— and  thou,  the  shepherd's  child, 
Joanne,  the  lovely  dreamer  of  the  wild  1 
Never  before,  and  never  since  that  hour, 
Hath  woman,  mantled  with  victorious  power, 
Stood  forth  as  thou  beside  the  shrine  didst  stand, 
Holy  amidst  the  knighthood  of  the  laud, 
And,  beautiful  with  joy  and  with  renown, 
Lift  thy  white  banner  o'er  the  olden  crown, 
Ransomed  for  France  by  thee  I 

The  rites  are  done. 

Now  let  the  dome  with  trumpet-notes  be  shaken, 
And  bid  the  echoes  of  the  tomb  awaken, 

And  come  thou  forth,  that  heaven's  rejoicing  sun 
May  give  thee  welcome  from  thine  own  blue  skies, 

Daughter  of  victory  I    A  triumphant  strain, 
A  proud  rich  stream  of  warlike  melodies. 

Gushed  through  the  portals  of  the  antique  fane. 
And  forth  she  came.    Then  rose  a  nation's  sound  : 
Oh  I  what  a  power  to  bid  the  quick  heart  bound, 
The  wind  bears  onward  with  the  stormy  cheer 
Man  gives  to  glory  on  her  high  career  1 
Is  there  indeed  such  power  ? — far  deeper  dwells 
In  one  kind  household  voice,  to  reach  the  cells 
Whence  happiness  flows  forth !    The  shouts  that  filled 
The  hollow  heaven  tempestuously,  were  stilled 
One  moment ;  and  in  that  brief  pause,  the  tone, 
As  of  a  breeze  that  o'er  her  home  had  blown, 
Sank  on  the  bright  maid's  heart.     "Joanne  1" — Who  spofct 

Like  those  whose  childhood  with  her  childhood  grew 
Under  one  roof?    "Joanne  !" — that  murmur  broke 

With  sounds  of  weeping  forth  I    She  turned — she  knew 
Beside  her,  marked  from  all  the  thousands  there, 
In  the  calm  beauty  of  his  silver  hair, 
The  stately  shepherd  ;  and  the  youth,  whose  joy, 
From  his  dark  eye  flashed  proudly ;  and  the  boy. 
The  youngest  born,  that  ever  loved  her  best : — 
"  Father  !  and  ye,  my  brothers  I"    On  the  breast 
Of  that  grey  sire  she  sank — and  swiftly  back, 
Even  in  an  instant,  to  their  native  track 


856  REOORDB  OF  WOMAN. 

\ 

Her  free  thoughts  flowed.    She  saw  the  pomp  no  more, 

The  plumes,  the  banners  :  to  her  cabin-door, 

And  to  the  Fairy's  Fountain  in  the  glade, 

Where  her  young  sisters  by  her  side  had  playee, 

And  to  her  hamlet  s  chapel,  where  it  rose 

Hallowing  the  forest  unto  deep  repose, 

Her  spirit  turned.    The  very  wood-note,  sung 

In  early  spring-time  by  the  bird,  which  dwelt 
Where  o'er  her  father's  roof  the  beech  leaves  hung, 

Was  in  her  heart ;  a  music  heard  and  felt, 
Winning  her  back  to  nature.    She  unbound 

The  helm  of  many  battles  from  her  head, 
And,  with  her  bright  locks  bowed  to  sweep  the  ground, 

Lifting  her  voice  up,  wept  for  joy  and  said— 
"  Bless  me,  my  father  1  bless  me  1  and  with  thee, 
To  the  still  cabin  and  the  beechen  tree, 
Let  me  return  I" 

Oh  I  never  did  thine  eye 
Through  the  green  haunts  of  happy  infancy 
^Wander  again,  Joanne !    Too  much  of  fame 
Hath  shed  its  radiance  on  thy  peasant  name ; 
And  bought  alone  by  gifts  beyond  all  price—* 
The  trusting  heart's  repose,  the  paradise 
Of  home,  with  all  its  loves — doth  fate  allow 
The  crown  of  glory  unto  woman's  brow. 


PAULINE. 

*  To  die  for  what  we  love  !   Oh  I  there  Is  power 
In  the  true  heart,  and  pride,  and  joy,  for  this : 
It  is  to  live  without  the  vanished  light 
That  strength  is  needed." 


4  Cosl  trapassa  al  trapassar  d'ua  Giorno 
Delia  vita  mortal  il  fiore  e'l  verde." — ' 


TAMO, 

ALONG  the  starlit  Seine  went  music  swelling, 
Till  the  air  thrilled  with  its  exulting  mirth  ; 

Proudly  it  floated,  even  as  if  no  dwelling 
For  cares  of  stricken  hearts  were  found  on  earth ; 

Aad  a  glad  sound  the  measure  lightly  beat, 

A  happy  chime  of  many  dancing  feet. 

For  in  a  palace  of  the  land  that  night, 

Lamps,  and  fresh  roses,  and  green  leaves  were  hung 
And  from  the  painted  walls  a  stream  of  light 

On  flying  forms  beneath  soft  splendour  flung ; 
But  loveliest  far  amidst  the  revel's  pride 
Was  one — the  lady  from  the  Danube  side. 

Pauline,  the  meekly  bright !  though  now  no  more 

Her  clear  eye  flashed  with  youth's  all-tameless  gleti 
¥et  something  holier  than  its  dayspring  wore, 

There  in  soft  rest  lay  beautiful  to  see ; 
A  charm -with  graver,  tenderer,  sweetness  fraught—- 
The blending  of  deep  love  and  matron  thought. 

Through  the  gay  throng  she  moved,  serenely  fair, 
And  such  calm  joy  ac  fills  a  moonlight  sky 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN.  357 

Sat  on  her  brow  beneath  its  graceful  hair, 

As  her  young  daughter  in  the  dance  went  by, 
With  the  fleet  step  of  one  that  yet  hath  known 
Smiles  and  kind  voices  in  this  world  alone. 

Lurked  there  no  secret  boding  in  her  breast  ? 

Did  no  faint  whisper  warn  of  evil  nigh  ? 
Such  oft  awake  when  most  the  heart  seems  blest 

'Midst  the  light  laughter  of  festivity. 
Whence  come  those  tones  ?    Alas  !  enough  we  know 
To  mingle  fear  with  all  triumphal  show  I 

Who  spoke  of  evil  when  young  feet  were  flying 

In  fairy  rings  around  the  echoing  hall? 
Soft  airs  through  braided  locks  in  perfume  sighing, 

Glad  pulses  beating  unto  music's  call  ? 
Silence  !— the  minstrels  pause — and  hark !  a  sound, 
A  strange  quick  rustling  which  their  notes  had  drowned  I  • 

And  lo  I  a  light  upon  the  dancers  breaking — 

Not  such  their  clear  and  silvery  lamps  had  shed  I 
From  the  gay  dream  of  revelry  awaking, 

One  moment  holds  them  still  in  breathless  dread. 
The  wild  fierce  lustre  grows :  then  bursts  a  cry — 
Fir  el  through  the  hafi  and  round  it  gathering — fly  I 

And  forth  they  rush,  as  chased  by  sword  and  spear. 

To  the  green  coverts  of  the  garden  bowers — 
A  gorgeous  masque  of  pageantry  and  fear, 

Startling  the  birds  and  trampling  down  the  flowers: 
While  from  the  dome'  behind,  red  sparkles  driven 
Pierce  the  dark  stillness  of  the  midnight  heaven. 

And  where  is  sher—  Pauline  ?  the  hurrying  throng 

Have  swept  her  onward,  as  a  stormy  blast 
Might  sweep  some  faint  o'erwearied  bird  along— 

Till  now  the  threshold  of  that  death  is  past, 
And  free  she  stands  beneath  the  starry  skies, 
Calling  her  child — but  no  sweet  voice  replies. 

'*  Bertha !  where  art  thou  ?    Speak  I  oh,  speak,  my  own  I" 

Alas  1  unconscious  of  her  pangs  the  while, 
The  gentle  girl,  in  fear's  cold  grasp  alone, 

Powerless  had  sunk  within  the  blazing  pile  ; 
A  young  bright  form,  decked  gloriously  for  death, 
With  flowers  all  shrinking  from  the  flame's  fierce  breath  • 

But  oh  !  thy  strength,  deep  love !    There  is  no  power 

To  stay  the  mother  from  that  rolling  grave, 
Though  fast  on  high  the  fiery  volumes  tower, 

And  forth  like  banners  from  each  lattice  wave  : 
Back,  back  she  rushes  through  a  host  combined — 
Mighty  is  anguish,  with  affection  twined  1 

And  what  bold  step  may  follow,  'midst  the  roar 

Of  the  red  billows,  o'er  their  prey  that  rise? 
None  1 — Courage  there  stood  still — and  never  more 

Did  those  fair  forms  emerge  on  human  eyes  1 
Was  one  bright  meeting  theirs,  one  wild  farewell? 
And  died  they  heart  to  heart  ?— Oh  I  who  can  tell  ? 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 

Freshly  and  cloudlessly  the  morning  broke 
On  that  sad  palace,  'midst  its  pleasure  shades ; 

Its  painted  roofs  had  sunk — yet  black  with  smokt 
And  lonely  stood  its  marble  colonnades  : 

But  yester  eve  their  shafts  with  wreaths  were  bound. 

Now  lay  the  scene  one  shrivelled  scroll  around  I 

And  bore  the  ruins  no  recording  trace 
Of  all  that  woman's  heart  had  dared  and  done? 

Yes  I  there  were  gems  to  mark  its  mortal  place. 
That  forth  from  dust  and  ashes  dimly  shone  I 

Those  had  the  mother,  on  her  gentle  breast, 

Worn  round  her  child's  fair  image,  there  at  rest 

And  they  were  all  1 — the  tender  and  the  true 

Left  this  alone  her  sacrifice  to  prove, 
Hallowing  the  spot  where  mirth  once  lightly  flew, 

To  deep  lone  chastened  thoughts  of  grief  and  love. 
Oh  1  we  have  need  of  patient  faith  below, 
To  clear  away  the  mysteries  of  such  woe  1 


(Juana,  mother  al  the  Eaperor  Charles  V.,  upon  the  death  of  her  husband,  Philip  the  Hand 
some  of  Austria,  Who  had  treated  her  with  uniform  neglect,  had  his  body  laid  upon  a  bed  of  state 
In  a  magnificent  dress ;  and  being  possessed  with  the  idea  that  it  would  revive,  watched  it  for  i 
length  of  time,  incessantly  waiting  for  the  moment  of  returning  life.] 

"  It  is  but  dust  them  lookst  upon.    This  love, 
This  wild  and  passionate  idolatry, 
What  doth  it  in  the  shadow  of  the  grave  t 
Gather  it  back  within  thy  lonely  heart, 
So  must  it  ever  end  :  too  much  we  give 
Unto  the  things  that  perish." 

THE  night  wind  shook  the  tapestry  round  an  ancient  palace  room, 
And  torches,  as  it  rose  and  fell,  waved  through  the  gorgeous  gloom, 
And  o'er  a  shadowy  regal  couch  threw  fitful  gleams  and  red, 
Where  a  woman  with  long  raven  hair  sat  watching  by  the  dead. 

Pale  shone  the  features  of  the  dead,  yet  glorious  still  to  see, 
Like  a  hunter  or  a  chief  struck  down  while  his  heart  and  step  were  free  : 
No  shroud  he  wore,  no  robe  of  death,  but  there  majestic  lay, 
Proudly  and  sadly  glittering  in  royalty's  array. 

But  she  that  with  the  dark  hair  watched  by  the  cold  slumberer's  side, 
On  her  wan  cheek  no  beauty  dwelt,  and  in  her  garb  no  pride  : 
Only  her  full  impassioned  eyes,  as  o'er  that  clay  she  bent, 
A  wildness  and  a  tenderness  in  strange  resplendence  blent. 

And  as  the  swift  thoughts  crossed  her  soul,  like  shadows  of  a  cloud, 
Amidst  the  silent  room  of  death  the  dreamer  spoke  aloud ; 
She  spoke  to  him  that  could  not  hear,  and  cried,  "  Thou  yet  wilt  wake, 
And  learn  my  watchings  and  my  tears,  beloved  one  I  for  thy  sake. 

They  told  me  this  was  death,  but  well  I  knew  it  could  not  be ; 
Fairest  and  stateliest  of  the  earth  I  who  spoke  of  death  for  thee  f 
They  would  have  wrapped  the  funeral  shroud  thy  gallant  form  around, 
But  I  forbade — and  there  thnu  art,  a  monarch,  roted  and  crowned  1 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN.  V ,      359 

"  With  all  thy  bright  locks  gleaming  still,  their  coronal  beneath, 
And  thy  brow  so  proudly  beautiful — who  said  that  this  was  death  ? 
Silence  hath  been  upon  thy  lips,  and  stillness  round  thee  long, 
But  the  hopeful  spirit  in  my  breast  is  all  undimmed  and  strong. 

"  I  know  thou  hast  not  loved  me  yet ;  1  am  not  fair  like  thee, 
The  very  glance  of  whose  clear  eye  threw  round  a  light  of  glee  ! 
A  frail  and  drooping  form  is  mine — a  cold  unsmiling  cheek — 
Oh  1  I  have  but  a  woman's  heart  wherewith  thy  heart  to  seek. 

'•  But  when  thou  wak'st,  my  prince,  my  lord  I  and  hear'st  how  I  have  kept 
A  lonely  vigil  by  thy  side,  and  o'er  thee  prayed  and  wept — 
How  in  one  long  deep  dream  of  thee  my  nights  and  days  have  past — 
Surely  that  humble  patient  love  must  win  back  love  at  last  1 

"  And  thou  wilt  smile — my  own.  my  own,  shall  be  the  sunny  smile,  • 
Which  brightly  fell,  and  joyously,  on  all  but  me  erewhile  1 
No  more  in  vain  affection's  thirst  my  weary  soul  shall  pine — 
Oh  1  years  of  hope  deferred  were  paid  by  one  fond  glance  of  thine  I 

"  Thou'lt  meet  me  with  that  radiant  look  when  thou  comest  from  the  chase  - 
For  me,  for  me,  in  festal  halls  it  shall  kindle  o'er  thy  face  1 
Thou  It  reck  no  more  though  beauty's  gift  mine  aspect  may  not  bless  ; 
In  thy  kind  eyes,  this  deep,  deep  love  shall  give  me  loveliness. 

"  But  wake  1  my  heart  within  me  bums,  yet  once  more  to  rejoice 
In  the  sound  to  which  it  ever  leaped,  the  music  of  thy  voice. 
Awake !  I  sit  in  solitude,  that  thy  first  look  and  tone, 
And  the  gladness  of  thine  opening  eyes,  may  all  be  mine  alone." 

In  the  still  chambers  of  the  dust,  thus  poured  forth  day  by  day,- 
The  passion  of  that  loving  dream  from  a  troubled  soul  found  way, 
Until  the  shadows  of  the  grave  had  swept  o'er  every  grace, 
Left  'midst  the  awfulness  of  death  on  the  princely  form  and  fiice. 

And  slowly  broke  the  fearful  truth  upon  the  watcher's  breast, 
And  they  bore  away  the  royal  dead  with  requiems  to  his  rest, 
With  banners  and  with  knightly  plumes  all  waving  in  the  wind- 
But  a  woman's  broken  heart  was  left  in  its  lone  despair  behind. 


THE  AMERICAN  FOREST  GIRL. 

"  A  fearful  gift  upon  thy  heart  Is  laid. 
Woman  ! — a  power  to  suffer  and  to  love  ; 
Therefore  thou  so  canst  pity." 

WILDLY  and  mournfully  the  Indian  drum 

On  the  deep  hush  of  moonlight  forests  broke— 
"  Sing  us  a  death-song,  for  thine  hour  is  come  "— 

So  the  red  warriors  to  their  captive  spoke. 
Still,  and  amidst  those  dusky  forms  alone, 

A  youth,  a  fair-haired  youth  of  England  stood, 
Like  a  king's  son  ;  though  from  his  cheek  had  flown 

The  mantling  crimson  of  the  island  blood, 
And  his  pressed  lips  looked  marble.     Fiercely  bright 
And  high  around  him  blazed  the  fires  of  night, 
Rocking  beneath  the 'cedars  to  and  fro, 
As  the  wind  passed,  and  with  a  fitful  glow 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 

Lighting  the  victim's  face  :  but  who  could  tell 

Of  what  within  his  secret  heart  befell, 

Known  but  to  Heaven  that  hour  ?    Perchance  a  thought 

Of  his  far  home  then  so  intensely  wrought, 

That  its  full  image,  pictured  to  his  eye 

On  the  dark  ground  of  mortal  agony, 

Rose  clear  as  day ! — and  he  might  see  the  band 

Of  his  young  sisters  wandering  hand  in  hand, 

Where  the  laburnums  drooped  ;  or  haply  binding 

The  jasmine  up  the  door's  low  pillars  winding ; 

Or,  as  day  closed  upon  their  gentle  mirth, 

Gathering,  with  braided  hair,  around  the  hearth. 

Where  sat  their  mother ;  and  that  mother's  face 

Its  grave  sweet  smile  yet  wearing  in  the  place 

Where  so  it  ever  smiled  1     Perchance  the  prayer 

Learned  at  her  knee  came  back  on  his  despair ; 

The  blessing  from  her  voice,  the  very  tone 

Of  her  "  Good-night"  might  breathe  from  boyhood  gone. 

— He  started  and  looked  up :  thick  cypress  boughs, 

Full  of  strange  sound,  waved  o'er  him,  darkly  red 
In  the  broad  stormy  firelight ;  savage  brows, 

With  tall  plumes  crested  and  wild  hues  o'erspread. 
Gut  him  like  feverish  phantoms  ;  and  pale  stars. 
Looked  through  the  branches  as  through  dungeon  bars, 
Shedding  no  hope.     He  knew,  he  felt  his  doom— 
Oh  I  what  a  tale  to  shadow  with  its  gloom 
That  happy  hall  in  England  !    Idle  fear  ! 
Would  the  winds  tell  it  ?    Who  might  dream  or  hear 
The  secret  of  the  forests  ?    To  the  stake 

They  bound  him  ;  and  that  proud  young  soldier  strove 
His  father's  spirit  in  his  breast  to  wake, 

Trusting  to  die  in  silence  I    He,  the  love 
Of  many  hearts  ! — the  fondly  reared — the  fair, 
Gladdening  all  eyes  to  see !    And  fettered  there 
He  stood  beside  his  death-pyre,  and  the  brand 
Flamed  up  to  light  it  in  the  chieftain's  hand. 
He  thought  upon  his  God.    Hush !  hark  1  a  cry 
Breaks  on  the  stern  and  dread  solemnity — 
A  step  hath  pierced  the  ring !    Who  dares  intrude 
On  the  dark  hunters  in  their  vengeful  mood  ? 
A  girl — a  young  slight  girl — a  fawn-like  child 
Of  green  savannas  and  the  leafy  wild, 
Springing  unmarked  till  then,  as  some  lone  flower, 
Happy  because  the  Sunshine  is  its  dower ; 
Yet  one  that  knew  how  early  tears  are  shed, 
For  Aers  had  mourned  a  playmate-brother  dead. 

She  had  sat  gazing  on  the  'victim  long, 
Until  the  pity  of  her  soul  grew  strong ; 
And,  by  its  passion's  deepening  fervour  swayed. 
Even  to  the  stake  she  rushed,  and  gently  laid 
His  bright  head  on  her  bosom,  and  around 
His  form  her  slender  arms  to  shield  it  wound 
Lake  close  Liannes ;  then  raised  her  glittering  eye. 
And  clear-toned  voice,  that  said,  "  He  shall  not  die  \ 
«*He  shall  not  die  I"— the  gloomy  forest  thrilled 
To  that  sweet  sound.    A  sudden  wonder  fell 


tLEOOEDS  OF  WOMAN.  361 

On  the  fierce  throng ;  and  heart  and  hand  were  stilled, 

Struck  down  as  by  the  whisper  of  a  spell. 
They  gazed  :  their  dark  souls  bowed  before  the  maid. 
She  of  the  dancing  step  In  wood  and  glade  I 
And,  as  her  cheek  flushed  through  its  olive  hue. 
As  her  black  tresses  to  the  night-wind  flew, 
Something  o'ermastered  them  from  that  young  mien- 
Something  of  heaven  in  silence  felt  and  seen ; 
And  seeming,  to  their  childlike  faith,  a  token 
That  the  Great  Spirit  by  her  voice  had  spoken. 

They  loosed  the  bonds  that  held  their  captive's  breath ; 
From  his  pale  lips  they  took  the  cup  of  death  ; 
They  quenched  the  brand  beneath  the  cypress-tree : 
M  Away  1"  they  cried,  "young  stranger,  thou  art  free  P 


COSTANZA. 

"  Art  thou  then  desolate  J 
Of  friends,  of  hopes  forsaken  f    Come  to  me  I 
I  am  thine  own.    Have  trusted  hearts  proved  false} 
Flatterers  deceived  thee  t    Wanderer,  come  to  me  I 
Why  didst  thou  ever  leave  me  t    Knowest  thou  all 
I  would  have  borne,  and  called  It  joy  to  bear, 
For  thy  sake  ?  _  Knowest  thou  that  thy  voice  hath  power 
To  shake  me  with  a  thrill  of  happiness 
By  one  kind  tone?— to  fill  mine  eyes  with  tears 
Of  yearning  love  t  _  And  thou — oh  I  thou  didst  throw 
That  crushed  affection  back  upon  my  heart ; 
Yet  come  to  me  !— it  died  not 

SHE  knelt  in  prayer.    A  stream  of  sunset  fell 
Through  the  stained  window  of  her  lonely  cell, 
And  with  its  rich,  deep,  melancholy  glow, 
Flushing  her  cheek  and  pale  Madonna  brow, 
While  o'er  her  long  hair's  flowing  jet  it  threw 
Bright  waves  of  gold — the  autumn  forest's  hue^- 
Seemed  all  a  vision's  mist  of  glory,  spread 
By  painting's  touch  around  some  holy  head, 
Virgin's  or  fairest  martyr's.     In  her  eye 
Which  glanced  as  dark  clear  wat«'.r  to  the  sky, 
What  solemn  fervour  lived  I    And  yet  what  woe, 
Lay  like  some  buried  thing,  still  seen  below 
The  glassy  tide  1  Oh  1  he  that  could  reveal 
What  life  had  taught  that  chastened  heart  to  feel, 
Might  speak  indeed  of  woman's  blighted  years, 
And  wasted  love  and  vainly  bitter  tears  1 
But  she  had  told  her  griefs  to  Heaven  alone, 
And  of  the  gentle  saint  no  more  was  known 
Than  that  she  fled  the  world's  cold  breath,  and  made 
A  temple  oi  the  pine  and  chestnut  shade, 
Filling  its  depths  with  soul,  whene'er  her  hymn 
Rose  through  each  murmur  of  the  green,  and  dim, 
And  ancient  solitude ;  where  hidden  streams 
Went  moaning  through  the  grass,  like  sounds  in  dreams- 
Music  for  weary  hearts  I    'Midst  leaves  and  flowers 
She  dwelt,  and  knew  all  secrets  of  their  powers. 
All  nature's  bairns,  wherewith  her  gliding  tread 
To  the  sick  peasant  on  his  lowly  bed. 


362  RECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 

Came  and  brought  hope  1  while  scarce  of  mortal  birth 
He  deemed  the  pale  fair  form  that  held  on  earth 
Communion  but  with  grief. 

Ere  long,  a  cell, 

A  rock-hewn  chapel  rose,  a  cross  of  stone 
Gleamed  through  the  dark  trees  o'er  a  sparkling  well ; 

And  a  sweet  voice,  of  rich  yet  mournful  tone, 
Told  the  Calabrian  wilds  that  duly  there 
Costanza  lifted  her  sad  heart  in  prayer. 
And  now  'twas  prayer's  own  hour.    That  voice  again 
Through  the  dim  foliage  sent  its  heavenly  strain, 
That  made  the  cypress  quiver  where  it  stood, 
In  day's  last  crimson  soaring  from  the  wood 
Like  spiry  flame.    But  as  the  bright  sun  set, 
Other  and  wilder  sounds  in  tumult/met 
The  floating  song.    Strange  sounds  1 — the  trumpet's  peal, 
Made  hollow  by  the  rocks — the  clasL  of  steel ; 
The  rallying  war-cry.     In  the  mountain  pass 
There  had  been  combat ;  blood  was  on  the  grass 
Banners  had  strewn  the  waters  ;  chiefs  lay  dying, 
And  the  pine  branches  crashed  before  the  flying. 

And  all  was  changed  within  the  still  retreat, 

Costanza's  home  :  there  entered  hurrying  feet 

Dark  looks  of  shame  and  sorrow — mail-clad  men, 

Stern  fugitives  from  that  wild  battle-glen, 

Scaring  the  ringdoves  from  the  porch  roof,  bore 

A  wounded  warrior  in.    The  rocky  floor 

Gave  back  deep  echoes  to  his  clanging  sword, 

As  there  they  laid  their  leader,  and  implored 

The  sweet  saint's  prayers  to  heal  him  :  then  for  flight. 

Through  the  wide  forest  and  the  mantling  night, 

Sped  breathlessly  again.    They  passed  ;  but  he, 

The  stateliest  of  a  host — alas  1  to  see 

What  mother's  eyes  have  watched  in  rosy  sleep, 

Till  joy,  for  very  fulness,  turned  to  weep, 

Thus  changed  1 — a  fearful  thing  1    His  golden  cresi 

Was  shivered,  and  the  bright  scarf  on  his  breast — 

Some  costly  love-gift — rent :  but  what  of  these? 

There  were  the  clustering  raven  locks — the  breeze. 

As  it  came  hi  through  lime  and  myrtle  flowers, 

Might  scarcely  lift  them  ;  steeped  in  bloody  showers, 

So  heavily  upon  the  pallid  clay 

Of  the  damp  cheek  they  hung.    The  eyes'  dark  ray, 

Where  was  it?    And  the  lips  I — they  gasped  apart. 

With  their  light  curve,  as  from  the  chisel's  art, 

Still  proudly  beautiful  1  but  that  white  hue — 

Was  it  not  death's — that  stillness—  thafecold  dew 

On  the  scarred  forehead  ?    No  1  his  spirit  broke 

From  its  deep  trance  ere  long,  yet  but  awoke 

To  wander  in  wild  dreams  ;  and  there  he  lay, 

By  the  fierce  fever  as  a  green  .reed  shaken, 

The  haughty  chief  of  thousands — the  forsaken 

Of  all  save  one.    She  fled  not.     Day  by  day ' 

Such  hours  are  woman's  birthright — she,  unknown, 

Kept  watch  beside  him,  fearless  and  alone  ; 

Binding  bis  wounds-,  and  oft  in  silence  laving 

His  brow  with  tears  that  mourned  the  strong  man's  raring. 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN.  '•  36S> 

He  felt  them  not,  nor  marked  the  light  veiled  form 
Still  hovering  nigh  1  yet  sometimes,  when  that  storm 

Of  frenzy  sank,  her  voice,  in  tones  as  low 
As  a  young  mother's  by  the  cradle  singing, 
Would  soothe  him  with  sweet  aves,  gently  bringing 

Moments  of  slumber,  when  the  fiery  glow 
Ebbed  from  his  hollow  cheek. 

At  last  faint  gleams 

Of  memory  dawned  upon  the  cloud  of  dreams, 
And  feebly  lifting,  as  a  child,  his  head, 
And  gazing  round  him  from  his  leafy  bed,, 
He  murmured  forth,  "  Where  am  I  ?    What  soft  strain 
Passed  like  a  breeze  across  my  burning  brain  ? 
Back  from  my  youth  it  floated,  with  a  tone 
Of  life's  first  music,  and  a  thought  of  one — 
Where  is  she  now  ?  and  where  the  gauds  of  pride, 
Whose  hollow,  splendour  lured  me  from  her  side? 
All  lost  I — and  this  is  death  1 — I  cannot  die 
Without  forgiveness  from  that  mournful  eye ! 
Away  1  the  earth  hath  lost  her.    Was  she  born 
To  brook  abandonment,  to  strive  with  scorn? 
My  first,  my  holiest  love  ! — her  broken  heart 
Lies  low,  and  I — unpardoned  I  depart." 

But  then  Costanza  raised  the  shadowy  veil 
From  her  dark  locks  and  features  brightly  pale, 
And  stood  before  him  with  a  smile — oh  !  ne'er 
Did  aught  that  smiled  so  much  of  sadness  wear— 
And  said,  "  Cesario  I  look  on  me  j  I  live 
To  say  my  heart  hath  bled,  and  can  forgive. 
I  loved  thee  with  such  worship,  such  deep  trust, 
As  should  be  Heaven's  alone — and  Heaven  is  just  I 
I  bless  thee — be  at  peace  1" 

But  o'er  his  frame 

Too  fast  the  strong  tide  rushed— the  sudden  shame, 
The  joy,  the  amaze  I    He  bowed  his  head — it  fell 
On  the  wronged  bosom,  which  had  loved  so  well ; 
And  love,  still  perfect,  gave  him  refuge  there — 
His  last  faint  breath  just  waved  her  floating  hair. 


MADELINE. 
> 

A  DOMESTIC  TALK. 

Who  should  It  be  ?— Where  shouldst  thou  look  for  kindness  t 

When  we  are  sick,  where  can  we  turn  for  succour ; 

When  we  are  wretched,  where  can  we  complain  ; 

And  when  the  world  looks  cold  and  surly  on  us, 

Where  can  we  go  to  meet  a  warmer  eye 

With  such  sure  confidence  as  to  a  mother  f"— JOANNA  BAflLtCE 

"  MY  child,  my  child,  thou  leavest  me  1  I  shall  hear 
The  gentle  voice  no  more  that  blest  mine  ear 
With  its  first  utterance  :  I  shall  miss  the  sound 
Of  thy  light  step  amidst  the  flowers  around, 
And  thy  soft-breathing  hymn  at  twilight's  close, 
And  thy  '  Good-night '  at  parting  for  repose. 
Under  the  vine-leaves  I  shall  sit  alone, 
And  the  low  breeze  will  have  a  mournful  toce 


364-  RECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 

Amidst  their  tendrils,  while  I  think  of  thee, 

My  child  I  and  thou,  along  the  moonlit  sea, 

With  a  soft  sadness  haply  in  thy  glance, 

Shalt  watch  thine  own.  thy  pleasant  land  of  France, 

Fading  to  air.    Yet  blessings  with  thee  go 

Love  guard  thee,  gentlest  1  and  the  exile's  woe 

From  thy  young  heart  be  far  1    And  sorrow  not 

For  me,  sweet  daughter  1  in  my  lonely  lot, 

God  shall  be  with  me.    Now,  farewell  1  farewell  I 

Thou  that  hast  been  what  words  may  never  tell 

Unto  thy -mother's  bosom,  since  the  days 

When  thou  wert  pillowed  there,  and  wont  to  raise 

(n  sudden  laughter  thence  thy  loving  eye 

That  still  sought  mine  :  these  moments  are  gone  by— • 

Thou  too  must  go,  my  flower  1    Yet  with  thee  dwell 

The  peace  of  God  I    One,  one  more  gaze :  farewell  f 

This  Was  a  mother's  parting  with  her  child — 

A  young  meek  bride,  on  whom  fair  Fortune  smiled. 

And  wooed  her  with  a  voice  of  love  away 

From  childhood's  home:  yet  there,  with  fond  delay, 

She  lingered  on  the  threshold,  heard  the  note 

Of  her  caged  bird  through  trellised  rose-leaves  float, 

And  fell  upon  her  mother's  neck  and  wept, 

Whilst  old  remembrances,  that  long  had  slept, 

Gushed  o'er  her  soul,  and  many  a  vanished  day. 

As  in  one  picture  traced,  before  her  lay. 

But  the  farewell  was  said  ;  and  on  the  deep, 
When  its  breast  heaved  in  sunset's  golden  sleep. 
With  a  calmed  heart,  young  Madeline  ere  long 
Poured  forth  her  own  sweet,  solemn  vesper-song, 
Breathing  of  home.    Through  stillness  heard  afar, 
And  duly  rising  with  the  first  pale  star, 
That  voice  was  on  the  waters  ;  till  at  last 
The  sounding  ocean  solitudes  were  passed, 
And  the  bright  land  was  reached,  the  youthful  world 
That  glows  along  the  West :  the  sails  were  furled 
In  its  clear  sunshine,  and  the  gentle  bride 
Looked  on  the  home  that  promised  hearts  untried 
A  bower  of  bliss  to  come.    Alas  !  we  trace 

The  map  of  our  own  paths,  and  long  ere  years 
With  their  dull  steps  the  brilliant  lines  efface, 

On  sweeps  the  storm,  and  blots  them  out  with  teaiG ! 
That  home  was  darkened  soon  :  the  summer  breeze 
Welcomed  with  death  the  wanderers  from  the  seas : 
Death  unto  one,  and  anguish — how  forlorn  ! 
To  her  that,  widowed  in  her  marriage  morn, 
Sat  in  her  voiceless  dwelling,  whence  with  him, 

Her  bosom's  first  beloved,  her  friend  and  guide, 
Joy  had  gone  forth,  and  left  the  green  earth  dim, 

As  from  the  sun  shut  out  on  every  side 
By  the  close  veil  of  misery.    Oh  1  but  ill, 

When  with  rich  hopes  o'erfraught,  the  young  high  heart 
Bears  its  first  blow  I  it  knows  not  yet  the  part 
Which  life  will  teach — to  suffer  and  be  still, 
And  with  submissive  love  to  count  the  flowers 
Which  yet  are  spared,  and  through  the  future  hours 


BEOORD8  OF  WOMAN.  865 

To  send  no  busy  dream  !    Sht  bad  not  learned 

Of  sorrow  till  that  hour,  and  therefore  turned 

In  weariness  from  life.    Then  came  the  unrest. 

The  heart-sick  yearning  of  the  exile's  breast, 

The  haunting  sounds  of  voices  far  away, 

And  household  steps  :  until  at  last  she  lay 

On  her  lone  couch  of  sickness,  lost  in  dreams 

Of  the  gay  vineyards  and  blue-rushing  streams 

In  her  own  sunny  land  ;  and  murmuring  oft 

Familiar  names,  in  accents  wild  yet  soft, 

To  strangers  round  that  bed,  who  knew  not  aught 

Of  the  deep  spells  wherewith  each  word  was  fraught 

To  strangers?    Oh  1  could  strangers  raise  the  head 

Gently  as  hers  was  raised  ?    Did  strangers  shed 

The  kindly  tears  which  bathed  that  feverish  brow 

And  wasted  cheek  with  half-unconscious  flow? 

Something  was  there  that,  through  the  lingering  night, 

Outwatches  patiently  the  taper's  light — 

Something  that  faints  not  through  the  day's  distress^ 

That  fears  not  toil,  that  knows  not  weariness — 

Love,  true  and  perfect  love  I    Whence  came  that  power, 

Uprearing  through  the  storm  the  drooping  flower? 

Whence  ? — who  can  ask  ?    The  wild  delirium  passed, 

And  from  her  eyes  the  spirit  looked  at  last 

Into  her  mother's  face,  and  wakening  knew 

The  brow's  calm  grace,  the  hair's  dear  silvery  hue, 

The  kind  sweet  smile  of  old ! — and  had  she  come, 

Thus  in  life's  evening  from  her  distant  home, 

To  save  her  child  ?    Even  so — nor  yet  in  vain  : 

In  that  young  he?Jt  a  light  sprang  up  again, 

And  lovely  still,  with  so  much  love  to  give, 

Seemed  this  fair  world,  though  faded  ;  still  to  li»£ 

Was  not  to  pine  forsaken.    On  the  breast 

That  rocked  her  childhood,  sinking  in  soft  rest, 

"Sweet  mother  !  gentlest  mother  I  can  it  be?" 

The  lorn  one  cried,  "  and  do  I  look  on  thee? 

Take  back  thy  wanderei  from  this  fatal  shore, 

Peace  shall  be  ours  beneath  our  vines  once  more." 


THE  QUEEN  OF  PRUSSIA'S  TOMB. 

("This  tomb  Is  in  the  garden  of  Charlottenburg,  near  Berlin.  It  wa»  not  without  surpriM, 
that  I  came  suddenly,  among  trees,  upon  a  fair  white  Doric  temple.  I  might  and  should  have 
deemed  it  a  mere  adornment  of  the  grounds,  but  the  cypress  and  the  willow  declare  it  a  habitation 
of  the  dead.  Upon  a  sarcophagus  of  white  marble  lay  a  sheet,  and  the  outline  of  the  human  form 
was  plainly  visible  beneath  its  folds.  The  person  with  me  reverently  turned  it  back,  and  ilispluyed 
the  statue  of  his  queen.  It  is  a  portrait  statue  recumbent,  said  to  be  a  perfect  resemblance — not 
as  in  death,  but  when  she  lived  to  bless  and  be  blessed.  Nothing  can  be  more  calm  and  kind  than 
the  expression  of  her  features.  The  hands  are  folded  on  the  bosom ;  the  limbs  are  sufficiently 
crossed  to  show  the  repose  of  life.  Here  the  King  brings  her  children  annually,  to  offer  garlands 
at  her  grave.  These  hang  in  withered  mournfulness .  above  this  living  image  of  their  departed 
mother." — SH  BRER'S  Notes  and  Reflections  during  a  Ramble  in  Germany. \ 

"  In  sweet  pride  upon  that  insult  keen 
She  smilc-.d  •.  then  drooping  mute  and  broken-hearted, 
To  the  cblJ  comfnrt  of  the  grave  departed." — MILMAN. 

IT  stands  where  northern  willows  weep,  |         From  cypress  branches  thrown ; 

A  temple  fair  and  lone  ;  While  silently  around  it  spread, 

Soft  shadows  o'er  its  marble  sweep  Thou  feelest.thc  presence  of  the  dead.. 


366 


RECOED8  OF  WOMAN. 


And  what  within  is  richly  shrined  2 
A  sculptured  woman's  form, 

Lovely,  in  perfect  rest  reclined, 
As  one  beyond  the  storm  : 

Yet  not  of  death,  but  slumber,  lies 

The  solemn  sweetness  on  those  eyes. 

The  folded  hands,  the  calm  pure  face, 

The  mantle's  quiet  flow, 
The  gentle  yet  majestic  grace 

Throned  on  the  matron  brow : 
These,  in  that  rcene  of  tender  gloom, 
With  a  still  glory  robe  the  tomb, 

There  stands  an  eagle,  at  the  feet 
Of  the  fair  image  wrought  ; 

A  kingly  emblem — nor  unmeet 
To  wake  yet  deeper  thought : 

She  whose  high  heart  grids  rest  below, 

Was  royal  in  her  birth  and  woe. 

There  are  pale  garlands  hung  above, 

Of  dying  scent  and  hue  ; 
She  was  a  mother — in  her  love 

How  sorrowfully  true  I 
Oh  1  hallowed  long  be  every  leaf, 
The  record  of  her  children's  grief  I 


She  saw  their  birthright's  warrior-crowu 

Of  clden  glory  spoiled, 
The  standard  of  their  sires  borne  down, 

The  shield's  bright  blazon  soiled  : 
She  met  the  tempest,  meekly  brave. 
Then  turned  o'erwearied  to  the  grave. 

She  slumbered  :  but  it  came — it  came, 

Her  land's  redeeming  hour, 
With  the  glad  shout,  and  signal  flame 

Sent  on  from  tower  to  tower  1 
Fast  through  the  realm  a  spirit  moved— 
Twas  hers,  the  lofty  and  the  loved. 

Then  was  her  name  a  note  that  rung 
To  rouse  bold  hearts  from  sleep  ; 

Her  memory,  as  a  banner  flung 
Forth  by  the  Baltic -deep  : 

Her  grief,  a  bitter  vial  poured 

To  sanctify  the  avenger's  sword. 

And  the  crowned  eagle  spread  again 
His  pinion,  to  the  sun  ; 

And  the  strong  land  shook  off  its  chain- 
So  was  the  triumph  won  I 

But  woe  for  earth,  where  sorrow's  tone 

Still  blends  with  victory's!— Ske  was  gone! 


THE  MEMORIAL  PILLAR. 

[On  the  road-side,  between  Penrith  and  Appleby,  stands  a  small  pillar,  with  this  inscription  :  - 
"  This  pillar  was  erected  in  the  year  1656,  by  Ann,  Countess-Dowager  of  Pembroke,  for  a  memorial 
of  her  last  parting,  in  this  place,  with  her  good  and  pious  mother,  Margaret,  Countess-Dowager  of 
Cumberland,  on  the  ad  April  1616." — See  notes  to  the  Pleasures  of  Memory.} 

"  Hast  thou  through  Eden's  wild-wood  vales,  pursued 
Each  mountain  scene  magnificently  rude, 
Nor  with  attention's  lifted  eye  revered 
That  modest  stone,  by  pious  Pembroke  reared, 
Which  still  records,  beyond  the  pencil's  power, 
The  silent  sorrows  of  a  parting  hour  I"— ROGERS. 

MOTHER  and  child  1  whose  blending  tears 

Have  sanctified  the  place. 
Where,  to  the  love  of  many  years, 

Was  given  one  last  embrace — 
Oh  I  ye  have  shrined  a  spell  of  power 
Deep  in  your  record  of  that  hour  1 

A  spell  to  waken  solemn  thought — 

A  still,  small  under  tone, 
That  calls  back  days  of  childhood,  fraught 

With  many  a  treasure  gone  ; 
And  smites,  perchance,  the  hidden  source, 
Though  long  untroubled — of  remorse. 

For  who  that  gazes  on  the  stone 

Which  marks  your  parting  spot, 
Who  but  a  mother's  love  hath  known — 

The  o*e  love  changing  not  ? 


Alas  1  and  haply  learned  its  worth 
First  with  the  sound  of  "  Earth  to  earth 

But  thou,  high-hearted  daughter  I  thou. 

O'er  whose  bright  honoured  head 
Blessings  and  tears  of  holiest  flow 

E'en  here  were  fondly  shed— 
Thou  from  the  passion  of  thy  grief, 
In  its  full  burst,  couldst  draw  relief. 

For,  oh  1  though  painful  be  the  excesf , 
The  might  wherewith  it  swells, 

In  nature's  fount  no  bitterness 
Of  nature's  mingling  dwells  ; 

And  thou  hadst  not,  by  wrong  or  pride, 

Poisoned  the  free  and  healthful  tide. 

But  didst  thou  meet  the  face  no  more 
Which  thy  young  heart  first  knew  ? 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 


367 


And  all— was  all  in  this  world  o'er 

With  ties  thus  close  and  true  ? 
It  was  I  On  earth  no  other  eye 
Could  giv«  thee  back  thine  infancy. 

No  other  voice  could  pierce  the  maze 
Where,  deep  within  thy  breast, 

fhe  sounds  and  dreams  of  other  days 
With  memory  lay  at  rest ; 

No  other  smile  to  thee  could  bring 

A  gladdening,  like  the  breath  of  spring. 

Yet,  while  thy  place  of  weeping  still 

Its  lone  memorial  keeps, 
While  on  thy  name,  'midst  wood  and  hill, 

The  quiet  sunshine  sleeps, 


And  touches,  in  each  graven  Hoe, 
Of  reverential  thought  a  sign  ; 

Can  I,  while  yet  these  tokens  wear 

The  impress  of  the  dead, 
Think  of  the  love  embodied  there 

As  of  a  vision  fled  ? 
A  perished  thing,  the  joy  and  flowe 
And  glory  of  one  earthly  hour  ? 

Not  so  ! — I  will  not  bow  me  so 
To  thoughts  that  breathe  despair ! 

A  loftier  faith  we  need  below, 
Life's  farewell  words  to  bear. 

Mother  and  child  I — your  tears  are  past- 

Surely  your  hearts  have  met  at  last. 


THE  GRAVE  OF  A  POETESS.* 

**  Ne  me  plaignez  pas — si  vous  saviez 
Combien  de  peines  ce  tombeau  m'a  epargn<e«  T 


I  STOOD  beside  thy  lowly  grave ; 

Spring  odours  breathed  around, 
And  music,  in  the  river  wave, 

Passed  with  a  lulling  sound. 

All  happy  things  that  love  the  sun 
In  the  bright  air  glanced  by, 

And  a  glad  murmur  seemed  to  ran 
Through  the  soft  azure  sky. 

Fresh  leaves  were  on  the  ivy  bough 
That  fringed  the  ruins  near  ; 

Young  voices  were  abroad — but  thou 
Their  sweetness  couldst  not  hear. 

And  mournful  grew  my  heart  for  thee  I 
•  Thou  in  whose  woman's  mind 
The  ray  that  brightens  earth  and  sea, 
The  light  of  song,  was  shrined. 

Mournful,  that  thou  wert  slumbering  low, 
With  a  dread  curtain  drawn 

Between  thee  and  the  golden  glow 
Of  this  world's  vernal  dawn. 

Parted  from  all  the  song  and  bloom 
Thou  wouldst  have  loved  so  well, 

To  thee  the  sunshine  round  thy  tomb 
Was  but  a  broken  spell. 

The  bird,  the  insect  on  the  wing, 
In  their  bright  reckless  play, 


Might  feel  the  flush  and  life  of  spring- 
And  thou  wert  passed  away. 

But  then,  e'en  then,  a  nobler  thought 
O'er  my  vain  sadness  came ; 

The  immortal  spirit  woke,  and  wrought 
Within  my  thrilling  frame. 

Surely  on  lovelier  things,  I  said, 
Thou  must  have  looked  ere  now. 

Than  all  that  round  our  pathway  shed 
Odours  and  hues  below. 

The  shadows  of  the  tomb  are  here, 
Yet  beautiful  is  earth  I  [fear, 

What  see'st  thou,  then,  where  no  dire 
No  haunting  dream  hath  birth  ? 

Here  a  vain  love  to  passing  flowers 
Thou  gavest ;  but  where  thou  art, 

The  sway  is  not  with  changeful  hours— 
There  love  and  death  must  part. 

Thou  hast  left  sorrow  in  thy  song, 

A  voice  not  loud  but  deep 
The  glorious  bowers  of  earth  among, 

How  often  didst  thou  weep  ? 

Where  couldst  .thou  fix  on  mortal  ground 
Thy  tender  thoughts  and  high  ? — 

Now  peace  thewoman's  heart  hath  found, 
And  joy  the  poet's  eye. 


*  M«.  Tighe,  author  of  "  Psych* 


368 


1830. 

SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS.\ 

A  SPIRITS  RETURN. 

"  This  is  to  be  a  mortal, 
And  seek  the  things  beyond  mortality."-  Manfred.  \ 

THY  voice  prevails ;  dear  Friend,  my  gentle  Friend  I 
This  long-shut  heart  for  thee  shall  be  unsealed, 
And  though  thy  soft  eye  mournfully  will  bend 
Over  the  troubled  stream,  yet  once  revealed 
Shall  its  freed  waters  flow ;  then  rocks  must  close 
For  evermore,  above  their  dark  repose. 

Come  while  the  gorgeous  mysteries  of  the  .sky 

Fused  in  the  crimson  sea  of  sunset  lie  . 

Come  to  the  woods,  where  all  strange  wandering  sound 

Is  mingled  into  harmony  profound  ; 

Where  the  leaves  thrill  with  spirit,  while  the  wind 

Fills  with  a  viewless  being,  unconfined, 

The  trembling  reeds  and  fountains  :— Our  own  deU, 

With  its  green  dimness  and  ^Golian  breath, 

Shall  suit  tb'  unveiling  of  dark  records  well — 

Hear  me  in  tenderness  and  silent  faith  I 

Thou  knew'sf  me  not  in  b'fe's  fresh  vernal  noon — 
I  would  thou  hadst ! — for  then  my  heart  on  thine 
Had  poured  a  worthier  love  ;  now,  all  o'erworn 
By  its  deep  thirst  for  something  too  divine. 
It  hath  but  fitful  music  to  bestow, 
Echoes  of  harp-strings,  broken  long  ago. 

Yet  even  in  youth  companionless  1  stood, 
As  a  lone  forest-bird  'midst  ocean's  foam  ; 
For  me  the  silver  cords  of  brotherhood 
Were  early  loosed  ; — the  voices  from  my  home 
Passed  one  by  one,  and  Melody  and  Mirth 
Left  me  a  dreamer  by  a  silent  hearth. 

But,  with  the  fulness  of  a  heart  that  burned 
For  the  deep  sympathies  of  mind,  I  turned 
From  that  unanswering  spot,  and  fondly  sought 
In  all  wild  scenes  with  thrilling  murmurs  fraught, 
In  every  still  small  voice  and  sound  of  power, 
And  flute-note  of  the  wind  through  cave  and  bower, . 
A  perilous  delight  I  for  then  first  woke 
My  life  s  lone  passion,  the  mysterious  quest 
Of  secret  knowledge ;  and  each  tone  that  broke 
From  the  wood-arches  or  the  fountain's  breast, 
Making  my  quick  soul  vibrate  as  a  lyre, 
But  ministered  to  that  strange  inborn  fire 


80&G8  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS  3C3 

'Midst  the  bright  silence  of  the  mountain-dells. 

In  noontide-hours  or  golden  summer-eves, 

My  thoughts  have  burst  forth  as  a  gale  that  swells 

Into  a  mshing  blast,  and  from  the  leaves 

Shakes  out  response  : — O  thou  rich  world  unseen ! 

Thou  curtained  realm  of  spirits  ! — thus  my  cry 

Hath  troubled  air  and  silence — dost  thou  lie 

Spread  all  around,  yet  by  some  filmy  screen 

Shut  from  us  ever  ? — The  resounding  woods, 

•Do  their  depths  teem  with  marvels  ? — and  the  floods, 

And  the  pure  fountains,  leading  secret  veins 

Of  quenchless  melody  through  rock  and  hill, 

Have  they  bright  dwellers? — are  their  lone  domains 

Peopled  with  beauty,  which  may  never  still 

Our  weary  thirst  of  soul  ? — Cold,  weak  and  cold, 

Is  Earth's  vain  language,  piercing  not  one  fold 

Of  our  deep  being  I — Oh,  for  gifts  more  high  I 

For  a  seer's  glance  to  rend  mortality  1 

For  a  charmed  rod,  to  call  from  each  dark  shrine^, 

The  oracles  divine  I 

I  woke  from  those  high  fantasies,  to  know 

My  kindred  with  the  Earth — I  woke  to  love  :— 

Oh,  gentle  Friend  I  to  love  in  doubt  and  woe, 

Shutting  the  heart  the  worshipped  name  above, 

Is  to  love  deeply — and  my  spirit's  dower 

Was  a  sad  gift,  a  melancholy  dower 

Of  so  adoring ; — with"  a  buried  care, 

And  with  the  o'erflpwing  of  a  voiceless  prayei, 

And  with  a  deepening  dream,  that  day  by  day, 

In  the  still  shadow  of  its  lonely  sway, 

Folded  me  closer  ; — till  the  world  held  nought 

Save  the  one  Being  to  my  centred  thought. 

There  was  no  music  but  his  voice  to  hear, 

No  joy  but  such  as  with  his  step  drew  near : 

Light  was  but  where  he  looked — life  where  he  moved-- 

Silently,  fervently,  thus,  thus  I  loved. 

Oh  I  but  such  love  is  fearful ! — and  I  knew 

Its  gathering  doom.     The  soul's  prophetic  sight 

Even  then  unfolded  in  my  breast,  and  threw 

O'er  all  things  round  a  full,  strong,  vivid  light, 

Too  sorrowfully  clear  ; — an  under-tone 

Was  given  to  Nature's  harp,  for  me  alone 

Whispering  of  grief. — Of  grief? — be  strong,  awafo&t 

Hath  not  thy  love  been  victory,  O  my  soul  ? 

Hath  not  its  conflict  won  a  voice  to  shake 

Death's  fastnesses? — a  magic  to  control 

Worlds  far  removed  ? — from  o'er  the  grave  to  thec 

Love  hath  made  answer ;  and  My  tale  should  be 

Sung  like  a  lay  of  triumph  I — Now  return, 

And  take  thy  treasure  from  its  bosomed  urn, 

And  lift  it  once  to  light  1 

In  fear,  in  pain, 

I  said  I  loved — but  yet  a  heavenly  strain 
Of  sweetness  floated  down  the  tearful  stream, 
A  joy  flashed  through  the  trouble  of  my  dreaa. 
I  knew  myself  beloved  ! — we  breathed  no  vow, 
No  minglujg  visions  migui  pui  Uie  allow, 


370  _  SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

As  unto  happy  hearts  ;  but  still  and  deep, 
Like  a  rich  jewel  gleaming  in  a  grave, 
Like  golden  sand  °n  some  dark  river's  wave^ 
So  did  my  soul  that  costly  knowledge  keep 
So  jealously  !— a  thing  o'er  which  to  shed, 
When  stars  alone  beheld  the  drooping  head, 
Lone  tears  I  yet  ofttimes  burdened  with  the  excess 
Of  our  strange  nature  s  quivering  happiness. 

But,  oh  !  sweet  Friend  !  we  dream  not  of  love's  might 
Till  Death  has  robed  with  soft  and  solemn  light 
The  image  we  enshrined. — Before  that  hour, 
We  have  but  glimpses  of  the  o'ermastering  power 
Within  us  laid  1 — tktn  doth  the  spirit-flame 
With  sword-like  lightning  rend  its  mortal  frame  j 
The  wings  of  that  which  pants-to  follow  fast 
Shake  their  clay-bars,  as  with  a  prisoned  blast,— 
The  sea  is  in  our  souls  I 

He  died,  ht  died, 

On  whdro  my  lone  devotedness  was  cast  1 
I  might  not  keep  one  vigil  by  his  side, 
/,  whose  wrung  heart  watched  with  him  to  the  last  • 
I  might  not  once  his  fainting  head  sustain, 
Nor  bathe  his  parched  lips  in  the  hour  of  pain, 
Nor  say  to  him,  "  Farewell  I" — He  passed  away— 
Oh  !  had  my  love  been  there,  its  conquering  sway 
Had  won  him  back  from  death  ! — but  thus  removed, 
Borne  o'er  the  abyss  no  sounding-line  hath  proved, 
Joined  with  the  unknown,  the  viewless, — he  became 
Unto  my  thoughts  another,  yet  the  same- 
Changed— hallowed — glorified  ! — and  his  low  grave 
Seemed  a  bright  mournful  altar— mine,  all  mine  :— 
Brother  and  Friend  soon  left  me  that  sole  shrine, 
The  birthright  of  the  Faithful  I— their  world's  wave 
Soon  swept  them  from  its  brink. — Oh  I  deem  thou  not 
That  on  the  sad  and  consecrated  spot 
My  soul  grew  weak  I — I  tell  thee  that  a  power 
There  kindled  heart  and  lip  ; — a  fiery  shower 
My  words  were  made  ; — a  might  was  given  to  prayer, 
And. a  strong  grr-sp  to  passionate  despair, 
And  a  dread  triumph  ! — Knowest  thou  what  I  sought? 
For  what  high  boon  my  struggling  spirit  wrought  ?— 
Communion  with  the  dead  I — I  sent  a  cry, 
Through  the  veiled  empires  of  eternity, 
A  voice  to  cleave  them  I     By  the  mournful  truth, 
By  the  lost  promise  of  my  blighted  youth, 
By  the  strong  chain  a  mighty  love  can  bind 
On  the  beloved,  the  spell  of  mind  o'er  mind  : 
By  words,  which  in  themselves  are  magic  high. 
Armed,  and  inspired,  and  winged  with  agony  ; 
By  tears,  which  comfort  not,  but  bum,  and  seem 
To  bear  the  heart's  blood  in  their  passion-stream ; 
I  summoned,  I  adjured  !— with  quickened  sense, 
With  the  keen  vigil  of  a  life  intense, 
I  watched,  an  answer  from  the  winds  to  wring, 
1  listened,  if  perchance  the  stream  might  bring 
Token  from  worlds  afar  :  I  taught  one  sound 
cue  f  1 01  oo  no 


BONGS  OF  TUE  AFFECTIONS.  371 

Imploring  accent  to  the  tomb,  the  sky; 

One  prayer  to-night, — "Awake,  appear,  reply  I* 

Hast  thou  been  told  that  from  the  viewless  bourne, 
The  dark  way  never  hath  allowed  return  ? 
That  all,  which  tears  can  move,  with  life  is  fled. 
That  earthly  love  is  powerless  on  the  dead  ? 
Believe  it  not  1 — there  is  a  large  lone  star, 
Now  burning  o'er  yon  western  hill  afar, 
And  under  its  clear  light  there  lies  a  spot, 
Which  well  might  utter  forth— Believe  it  not! 

I  sat  beneath  that  planet,— I  had  wept 
My  woe  to  stillness  ;  every  night-wind  slept  { 
A  hush  was  on  the  hills ;  the  very  streams 
Went  by  like  clouds,  or  noiseless  founts  in  dreams, 
And  the  dark  tree  o'ershadowing  me  that  hour. 
Stood  motionless,  even  as  the  grey  church-tower 
Whereon  I  gazed  unconsciously : — there  came 
A  low  sound,  like  the  tremor  of  a  flame, 
Or  like  the  light  quick  shiver  of  a  wing,. 
Flitting  through  twilight  woods,  across  the  air ; 
And  I  looked  up  I — Oh  1  for  strong  words-  to  bring 
Conviction  o'er  thy  thought ! — Before  me  there, 
He,  the  Departed,  stood  I— Ay,  face  to  face — 
So  near,  and  yet  how  far  1 — his  form,  his  mien. 
Gave  to  remembrance  back  each  burning  trace 
Within : — Yet  something  awfully  serene, 
Pure, — sculpture-like,— on  the  pale  brow,  that  wore 
Of  the  once  beating  heart  no  token  more  ; 
And  stillness  on  the  lip — and  o'er  the  hair 
A  'gleam,  that  trembled  through  the  breathless  air ; 
And  an  unfathomed  calm,  that  seemed  to  lie 
In  the  grave  sweetness  of  the  illumined  eye ; 
Told  of  the  gulfs  between  our  being  set, 
And,  as  that  unsheathed  spirit-glance  I  met, 
Made  my  soul  faint : — with  fear  f— Oh  1  not  with  fear  ! 
With  the  sick  feeling  that  in  his  far  sphere 
My  love  could  be  as  nothing  I — But  he  spoke- 
How  shall  I  tell  thee  of  the  startling  thrill 
In  that  low  voice,  whose  breezy  tones  could  fill 
My  bosom's  infinite? — O  Friend,  I  woke 
Then  first  to  heavenly  life  I — Soft,  solemn,  clear. 
Breathed  the  mysterious  accents  on  mine  ear, 
Yet  strangely  seemed  as  if  the  while  they  rose 
From  depths  of  distance,  o'er  the  wide  repose 
Of  slumbering  waters  wafted,  or  the  dells 
Of  mountains,  hollow  with  sweet  echo-cells ; 
But,  as  they  murmured  on,  the  mortal  chill 
Passed  from  me,  like  a  mist  before  the  morn, 
And,  to  that  glorious  intercourse  upborne, 
By  slow  degrees,  a  calm,  divinely  still. 
Possessed  my  frame  : — I  sought  that  lighted  eye,— 
From  its  intense  and  searching  purity 
I  drank  in  soul  I— \  questioned  of  the  dead — 
Of  the  hufnedj  stairy  shores  their  footsteps  tresil— 
And  I  was  answered  :— if  remembrance  there," 
With  drtaxuy  whispers  fill  the  immortal  air; 


372"  SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS: 

If  Thought,  here  piled  from  many  a  jewel-heap, 
Be  treasure  in  that  pensive  land  to  keep  ; 
If  Love,  o'ersweeping  change,  and  blight,  and  blast. 
Find  there  the  music  of  his  home  at  last ; 
I  asked,  and  I  was  answered  : — Full  and  high 
Was  that  communion  with  eternity, 
Too  rich  for  aught  so  fleeting  I — Like  a  knell 
Swept  o'er  my  sense  its  closing  words, — "  Farewell, 
On  earth  we  meet  no  more  1" — and  all  was  gone— 
The  pale  bright  settled  brow — the  thrilling  tone— 
The  still  and  shining  eye  ! — and  never  more 
May  twilight  gloom  or  midnight  hush  restore 
That  radiant  guest  !— One  full-fraught  hour  of  Heaven, 
To  earthly  passion's  wild  implorings  given, 
Was  made  my  own — the  ethereal  fire  hath  shivered ) 
The  fragile  censer  in  whose  mould  it  quivered, 
Brightly,  consumingly  1 — What  now  is  left  ? —  j 
A  faded  world,  of  glory's  hues  bereft, 
A  void,  a  chain  I— I  dwell,  'midst  throngs,  apart, 
In  the  cold  silence  of  the  stranger's  heart  ; 
A  fixed,  immortal  shadow  stands  between , 
My  spirit  and  life's  fast-receding  scene  ; 
, .         A  gift  hath  severed  me  from  human  ties, 
A  power  is  gone  from  all  earth's  melodies, 
Which  never  may  return  ; — their  chords  are  broken— 
The  music  of  another  land  hath  spoken,— 
No  after-sound  is  sweet  I — this  weary  thirst  I — 
And  I  have  heard  celestial  fountains  burst  I— 
What  here  shall  quench  it? 

Dost  thou  not  rejoice, 

When  the  spring  sends  forth  an  awakening  voice 
Through  the  young  woods?— Thou  dost  1— And  in  that  birtb 
Of  early  leaves,  and  flowers,  and  songs  of  mirth, 
Thousands,  like  thee,  find  gladness  I — Couldst  thou  know 
How  every-breeze  then  summons  me  to  go  I 
How  all  the  light  of  love  and  beauty  shed 
By  those  rich  hours,  but  woos  me  to  the  Dead  I 
The  only  beautiful  that  change  no  more, 
The  only  loved  ! — the  dwellers  on  the  shore 
Of  spring  fulfilled  1 — The  Dead  \-rwhom  call  we  so? 
They  that  breathe  purer  air,  that  feel,  that  know 
Things  wrapt  from  us  1 — Away  1 — within  me  pent, 
That  which  is  barred  from  its  own  element 
Still  droops  or  struggles  ! — But  the  day  will  come- 
Over  the  deep  the  free  bird  finds  its  home, 
And  the  stream  lingers  'midst  the  rocks,  yet  greets  ( 
The  sea  at  last ;  and  (he  winged  Sower-seed  meets 
A  soil  to  rest  in  ; — shall  not  /,  too,  be, 
My  spirit-love  1  upborne  to  dwell  with  thee  ? 
Ves  I  by  the  power  whose  conquering  anguish  stirred 
The  tomb,  whose  cry  beyond  the  stars  was  heard. 
Whose  agony  of  triumph  won  thee  back 
Through  the  dim  pass.no  mortal  sterj  may  track, 
Yet  shall  we  meet  1 — that  glimpse  of  joy  divine, 
Proved  thee  for  ever  and  for  ever  mine  t 


SONG8  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS.  373 


THE  LADY  OF  PROVENCE.* 

*•  Courage  was  cast  about  her  like  a  dress 

Of  solemn  comeliness, 
A  gathered  mind  and  an  untroubled  face 
Did  give  her  dangers  grace."— DONNE. 

THE  war-note  of  the  Saracen 

Was  on  the  winds  of  France  ; 
It  had  stilled  the  harp  of  the  Troubadour, 

And  the  clash  of  the  tourney's  lance. 

The  sounds  of  the  sea,  and  the  sounds  of  the  night. 
And  the  hollow  echoes  of  charge  and  flight, 
Were  around  Clotilde,  as  she  kr  ilt  to  pray 
In  a  chapel  where  the  mighty  lay 

On  the  old  Provenpal  shore ; 
Many  a  Chatillon  beneath, 
Unstirred  by  the  ringing  trumpet's  breath, 

His  shroud  of  armour  .wore. 

And  the  glimpses  of  moonlight  that  went  and  came 
Through  the  clouds,  like  bursts  of  a  dying  flame. 
Gave  quivering  life  to  the  slumber  pale 
Of  stern  forms  couched  in  their  marble  mail, 
At  rest  on  the  tombs  of  the  knightly  race, 
The  silent  throngs  of  that  burial-place. 

They  were  imaged  there  with  helm  and  spear, 
As  leaders  in  many  a  bold  career, 
And  haughty  their  stillness  looked  and  high, 
Like  a  sleep  whose  dreams  were  of  victory  : 
But  meekly  the  voice  of  the  lady  rose 
Through  the  trophies  of  their  proud  repose ; 
Meekly,  yet  fervently,  calling  down  aid,    - 
Under  their  banners  of  battle  she  prayed ; 
With  her  pale  fair  brow,  and  her  eyes  of  love. 
Upraised  to  the  Virgin's  portrayed  above, 
And  her  hair  flung  back,  till  it  swept  the  grave 
Of  a  Chatillon  with  its  gleamy  wave. 
And  her  fragile  frame,  at  every  blast, 
That  full  of  the  savage  war-horn  passed, 
Trembling,  as  trembles  a  bird's  quick  heart, 
When'  it  vainly  strives  from  its  cage  to  part;— 

So  knelt  she  in  her  woe ; 
A  weeper  alone  with  the  tearless  dead — 
Oh  1  they  reck  not  01  tears  o'er  their  quiet  shed, 

Or  the  dust  had  stirred  below  I 

Hark  I  a  swift  step  1  she  hath  caught  its  tone, 

Through  the  dash  of  the  sea,  through  the  wild  wind's  moan  ;— 

Is  her  lord  returned  with  his  conquering  bands? 

No !  a  breatkless  vassal  before  her  stands  I — 

"  Hast  thou  been  on  the  field? — Art  thou  come  from  the  host  ?' 

"  From  the  slaughter,  Lady  1 — All,  all  is  lost  1 

Our  banners  are  taken,  "bur  knights  laid  low, 

Our  spearmen  chased  by  the  Paynim  foe, 

••Founded  oa  an  incident  iu  the  early  French  history. 


374  SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

And  thy  Lord,"  his  voice  took  a  sadder  sound— 
"  Thy  Lord — he  is  not  on  the  bloody  ground  I 
There  are  those  who  tell  that  -the  leader's  plume 
Afas  seen  on  the  flight  through  the  gathering  gloom."— , 

A  change  o'er  her  mien  and  her  spirit  passed  I 

She  ruled  the  bean  which  had  beat  so  fast, 

She  dashed  the  tears  from  her  kindling  eye, 

With  a  glance,  as  of  sudden  royalty  ; 

The  proud  blood  sprang  in  a  fiery  flow, 

Quick  o'er  bosom,  and  cheek,  and  brow, 

And  her  young  voice  rose  till  the  peasant  shook 

At  the  thrilling  tone  and  the  falcon-look : — 

"  Dost  thou  stand  by  the  tombs  of  the  glorious  dead. 

And  fear  not  to  say  that  their  son  hath  fled  ?— 

Away  !  he  is  lying  by  lance  and  shield, — 

Point  me  the  path  to  his  battle-field  I  " 

The  shadows  of  the  forest 

Arc  about  the  lady  now ; 
She  is  hurrying  through  the  midnight  on, 

Beneath  the  dark  pine  bough. 

There's  a  murmur  of  omens  in  every  leaf, 

There's  a  wail  in  the  stream  like  the  dirge  of  a  chief; 

The  branches  that  rock  to  the  tempest-strife, 

Are  groaning  like  things  of  troubled  life ; 

The  wind  from  the  battle  seems  rushing  by 

With  a  funeral  march  through  the  gloomy  sky  $ 

The  pathway  is  rugged,  and  wild,  and  long, 

But  her  frame  in  the  daring  of  love  is  strong, 

And  her  soul  as  on  swelling  seas  upborne. 

And  girded  all  fearful  things  to  scorn. 

And  fearful  things  were  around  her  spread, 
When  she  reached  the  field  of  the  warrior-dead ;  •. 
There  lay  the  noble,  the  valiant,  low — 
Ay  1  but  one  word  speaks  of  deeper  woe ; 
There  lay  the  loved — on  each  fallen  head 
Mothers  vain  blessings  and  tears  had  shed  ; 
Sisters  were  watching  in  many  a  home 
For  the  fettered  footstep,  no  more  to  come ; 
Names  in  the  prayer  of  that  night  were  spoken, 
Whose  claim  unto  kindred  prayer  was  broken ; 
And  the  fire  was  heaped,  and  the  bright  wine  poured, 
For  those  now  needing  nor  hearth  nor  board 
Only  a  requiem,  a  shroud,  a  knell, 
And  oh !  ye  beloved  of  women,  farewell  I 

Silently,  with  lips  compressed, 
Pale  hands  clasped  above  her  treas. 
Stately  brow  of  anguish  high,  . 
Deathlike  cheek,  but  dauntless  eyx 
Silently,  o'er  that  red  plain, 
Moved  the  lady  'midst  the  slain. 

Sometimes  it  seemed  as  a  charging  cry. 

Or  the  ringing  tramp  of  a  steed,  came  nigh ; 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS.  375 

Sometimes  a  blast  of  the  Paynim  horn, 
Sudden  and  shrill  from  the  mountains  borne ; 
And  her  maidens  trembled  ; — but  on  her  ear 
No  meaning  fell  with  those  sounds  of  fear ; 
They  had  less  6f  mastery  to  shake  her  now, 
rhan  the  quivering,  erewhile,  of  an  aspen  bouglu 
5he  searched  into  many  an  unclosed  eye, 
That  looked,  without  soul,  to  the  starry  sky ; 
She  bowed  down  o'er  many  a  shattered  breast. 
She  lifted  up  helmet  and  cloven  crest — 

Not  there,  not  there  he  lay  I 
"  Lead  where  the  most  hath  been  dared  and  done, 
Where  the  heart  of  the  battle  hath  bled,— lead  on  I" 

And  the  vassal  took  the  way. 

He  turned  to  a  dark  and  lonely  tree 

That  waved  o'er  a  fountain  red ; 
Oh  1  swiftest  there  had  the  currents  fret 

From  noble  veins  been  shed. 

Thickest  there  the  spear-heads  gleamed, 
And  the  scattered  plumage  streamed, 
And  the  broken  shields  were  tossed. 
And  the  shivered  lances  crossed, 
And  the  mail-clad  sleepers  round 
Made  the  harvest  of  that  ground. 

He  was  there  1  the  leader  amidst  his  band. 
Where  the  faithful  had  made  their  last  vain  stand} 
He  was  there  I  but  affection's  glance  alone 
The  darkly-changed  in  that  hour  had  known  ; 
With  the  falchion  yet  in  his  cold  hand  grasped. 
And  a  banner  of  France  to  his  bosom  clasped, 
And  the  form  that  of  conflict  bore  fearful  trace, 
And  the  face — oh  1  speak  not  of  that  dead  lace  I 
As  it  lay  to  answer  love's  look  no  more. 
Yet  never  so  proudly  loved  before ! 
She  quelled  in  her  soul  the  deep  floods  of  woe, 
The  time  was  not  yet  for  their  waves  to  flow ; 
She  felt  the  full  presence,  the  might  of  Death, 
Yet  there  came  no  sob  with  her  struggling  breath, 
And  a  proud  smile  shone  o'er  her  pale  despair, 
As  she  turned  to  his  followers — "Your  Lord  is  there  I 
Look  on  him  1  know  him  by  scarf  and  crest  1 — 
Dear  him  away  with  his  sires  to  rest  I" 

Another  day — another  night— 

And  the  sailor  on  the  deep 
Hears  the  low  chant  of  a  funeral  rite 

From  the  lordly  chapel  sweep : 

It  comes  with  a  broken  and  muffled  tone, 

As  if  that  rite  were  in  terror  done ; 

Yet  the  song  'midst  the  seas  hath  a  hrilling  power, 

And  he  knows  'tis  a  chieftain's  burial-hour. 

Hurriedly,  in  fear  and  woe, 
Through  the  aisle  the  mourners  go ; 
With  a  hushed  and  stealthy  tread. 
Bearing  on  the  noble  dead. 


376  BONOS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

Sheathed  in  armour  of  the  field — 

Only  his  wan  face  revealed. 

Whence  the  still  and  solemn  gleam 

Doth  a  strange  sad  contrast  seem 

To  the  anxious  eyes  of  that  pale  band, 

With  torches  wavering  in  every  hand,  v 

For  they  dread  each  moment  the  shout  of  was. 

And  the  burst  of  the  Moslem  scimitar. 

There  is  no  plumed  head  o'er  the  bier  to  bend. 

No  brother  of  battle,  no  princely  friend 

No  sound  comes  back  like  the  sounds  of  yore, 

Unto  sweeping  swords  from  the  marble  floor  ;  • 

By  the  red  fountain  the  valiant  he, 

The  flower  of  Provencal  chivalry  ; 

But  one  free  step,  and  one  lofty  heart, 

Bear  through  that  scene,  to  the  last,  their  part. 

She  hath  led  the  death-train  of  the  brave 
To  the  verge  of  his  own  ancestral  grave.; 
She  hath  held  o'er  her  spirit  long  rigid  sway, 
But  the  struggling  passion  must  now  have  way. 
In  the  cheek,  half  seen  through  her  mourning  vdL 
By  turns  does  the  swift  blood  flush  and  fail ; 
The  pride  on  the  lip  is  lingering  still, 
But  it  shakes  as  a  flame  to  the  blast  might  thrill ; 
Anguish  and  Triumph  are  met  at  strife, 
Rending  the  chords  of  her  frail  young  life, 
And  she  sinks  at  last  on  her  warrior's  bier, 
Lifting  her  voice,  as  if  Death  might  hear.— 

"  I  have  won  thy  fame  from  the  breath  of  wrong, 
My  soul  hath  risen  for  thy  glory  strong  J 
Now  call  me  hence,  by  thy  side  to  be, 
The  world  thou  leav'st  has  no  place  for  me. 
The  light  goes  with  thee,  the  joy,  the  worth- 
Faithful  and  tender  I    Oh !  call  me  forth  1 
Give  me  my  home  on  thy  noble  heart,— 
Well  have  we  loved,  let  us  both  depart  1" 
And  pale  on  the  breast  of  the  Dead  she  lay, 
The  living  cheek  to  the  cheek  of  clay; 
The  living  cheek  ! — Oh  I  it  was  not  vain, 
That  strife  of  the  spirit  to  rend  its  chain  ; 
She  is  there  at  rest  in  her  place  of  pride, 
In  death  how  queen-like — a  glorious  bride  ! 

Joy  for  the  freed  One  ! — she  might  not  stay 

When  the  crown  had  fallen  from  her  life  away; 

She  might  not  linger — a  weary  thing, 

A  dove,  with  no  home  for  its  broken  wing, 

Thrown  on  the  harshness  of  alien  skies, 

rhat  know  not  its  own  land's  melodies. 

From  the  long  heart-withering  early  gone  ; 

She  hath  lived — she  hath  loved — her  task  is  done. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


THE  CORONATION  OF  INEZ  DE  CASTRO. 

["  Tableau,  o&  1'Amour  fait  alliance  avec  la  Tcia.be  ;  uaico  redoubtable  .de  la  mort  et  de  la 
vie !"— MADAME  DK  STAEI..] 


THERE  was  music  on  the  midnight ; — 

From  a  royal  fane  it  rolled, 
And  a  mighty  bell,  each  pause  between, 

Sternly  and  slowly  tolled. 
Strange  was  their  mingling  in  the  sky, 

It  hushed  the  listener's  breath  ; 
For  the  music  spoke  of  triumph  high, 

The  lonely  bell,  of  death. 

There  was  hurrying  through  the  midnight — 

A  sound  of  many  feet ; 
But  they  fell  with  a  muffled  fearfulness 

Along  the  shadowy  street : 
And  softer,  fainter,  grew  their  tread, 

As  it  neared  the  minster-gate, 
Whence  a  broad  and  solemn  light  was  shed 

From  a  scene  of  royal  state. 

Full  glowed  the  strong  red  radiance 

In  the  centre  of  the  nave, 
Where  the  folds  of  a  purple  canopy 

Swept  down  in  many  a  wave  ; 
Loading  the  marble  pavement  old 

With  a  weight  of  gorgeous  gloom  ; 
For  something  lay  'midst  their  fretted  gold, 

Like  a  shadow  of  the  tomb. 

And  within  that  rich  pavilion, 

High  on  a  glittering  throne, 
A  woman's  form  sat  silently, 

'Midst  the  glare  of  light  alone. 
Her  jewelled  robes  fell  strangely  still — 

The  drapery  on  'her  breast 
Seemed  with  no  pulse  beneath  to  thrill, 

So  stonelike  was  its  rest  I 

But  a  peal  of  lordly  music 

Shook  e'en  the  dust  below, 
When  the  burning  gold  of  the  diadem 

Was  set  on  her  pallid  brow  1 
Then  died  away  that  haughty  sound, 

And  from  the  encircling  band 
Stepped  Prince  and  Chief,  'midst  the  hush 
profound, 

With  homage  to  her  hand. 

Why  passed  a  faint,  cold  shuddering 

Over  each  martial  frame, 
As  one  by  one,  to  touch  that  hand, 

Noble  and  leader  came  ? 
Was  not  the  settled  aspect  fair? 

Did  not  a  queenly  grace. 
Under  the  parted  ebon  hair, 

Sit  on  the  palo  still  face  ? 


Death  I  Death  I  canst  thou  be  lovely 

Unto  the  eye  of  life? 
Is  not  each  pulse  of  the  quick  high  breadl,. 

With  thy  cold  mien  at  strife  ? — 
It  was  a  strange  and  fearful  sight,- 

The  crowii  upon  that  head, 
The  glorious  robes,  and  the  blaze  of  light, 

All  gathered  round  the  Dead  1 

And  beside  her  stood  in  silence 

One  with  a  brow  as  pale, 
And  white  lips  rigidly  compressed, 

Lest  the  strong  heart  should  fail : 
King  Pedro,  with  a  jealous  eye, 

Watching  the  homage  done, 
By  the  land  s  flower  and  chivalry, 

To  her,  his  martyred  one. 

But  on  the  face  he  looked  not, 

Which  once  his  star  had  been  ; 
To  every  form  his  glance  was  turned, 

Save  of  the  breathless  queen  : 
Though  something,  won  from  the  grave's 
embrace, 

Of  her  beauty  still  was  there, 
Its  hues  were  all  of  that  shadowy- place, 

It  was  not  for  him  to  bear. 

Alas  1  the  crown,  the  sceptre, 

The  treasures  of  the  earth,  [gifts, 

And  the  priceless  love  that  poured  those 

Alike  of  wasted  worth  1 
The  rites  are  closed, — bear  back  the  Dead 

Unto  the  chamber  deep  I 
Lay  down  again  the  royal  head,  , 

Dust  with  the  dust  to  sleep  1 

There  is  music  on  the  midnight— 

A  requiem  sad  and  slow, 
As  the  mourners  through  the  sounding  aisk 

In  dark  procession  go ; 
And  the  ring  of  state,  and  the  starry  crown 

And  all  the  rich  array, 
Are  borne  to  the  house  of  silence  down, 

With  her,  that  queen  of  clay  I 

And  fearlessly  and  firmly 

King  Pedro  led  the  train, — 
But  his  face  was  wrapt  in  his  folding  robe, 

When  they  lowered  the  dust  again. 
'Tis  hushed  at  last  the  tomb  above, 

Hymns  die,  and  steps  depart : 
Who  called  thee  strong  as  Death,  O  Love? 

Mightier  thou  wast  and  art. 


S78  SONGS  OF  THV  AFFECTIONS. 


ITALIAN  GIRL'S  HYMN  TO  THE  VIRGIN. 

"  O  sanctissima,  O  purissima  I 

Dulcis  Virgo  Maria, 
Mater  amata,  intemcrala, 
Ora,  ora  pro  nobis." — Sicilian  Marinet't  Hti 

IN  the  deep  hour  of  dreams, 
Through  the  dark  woods,  and  past  the  moaning  sea, 

And  by  the  starlight  gleams, 
Mother  of  Sorrows  I  lo,  I  come  to  thee. 

Unto  thy  shrine  I  bear 
Wight-blowing  flowers,  like  my  own  heart,  to  lie 

All,  all  unfolded  thers, 
Beneath  the  meekness  of  thy  pitying  eye. 

For  thou,  that  once  didst  move, 
In  thy  still  beauty,  through  an  early  home, 

Thou  knowest  the  grief,  the  love, 
The  fear  of  woman's  soul ;— to  thee  I  coma  I 

Many,  and  sad,  and  deep, 
Were  the  thoughts  folded  in  thy  silent  breast ; 

Thou,  too,  couldst  watch  and  weep— 
Hear,  gentlest  mother  I  hear  a  heart  opprest  I 

There  is  a  wandering  bark 
Bearing  one  from  me  o'er  the  restless  waves ; 

Oh  I  let  thy  soft  eye  mark 
His  course  ; — be  with  him,  Holiest,  guide  and  save! 

My  soul  is  on  that  way ; 
My  thoughts  are  travellers  o'er  the  waters  dim  ; 

Through  the  long  weary  day, 
I  walk,  o'ershadowed  by  vain  dreams  of  him. 

Aid  him, — and  me,  too,  aid  I 
Oh  I  'tis  not  well,  this  earthly  love  s  excess  I 

On  thy  weak  child  is  laid 
The  burden  of  too  deep  a  tenderness. 

Too  much  o'er  him  is  poured 
My  being's  hope — scarce  leaving  Heaven  a  pail ; 

Too  fearfully  adored, 
Ob  I  make  not  him  the  chastener  of  my  heart ! 

I  tremble  with  a  sense 
Of  grief  to  be  ; — I  hear  a  warning  low— 

Sweet  mother !  call  me  hence  I 
This  wild  idolatry  must  end  in  woe. 

The  troubled  joy  of  life. 
Love's  lightning  happiness,  my  soul  hath  known  ; 

And,  worn  with  feverish  strife, 
Would  fold  its  wings  ; — take  back,  take  back  thine  own  1 

Hark  !  how -the  wind  swept  by  ! 
The  tempest's  voice  comes  rolling  o'er  the  wave — 

Hope  of  the  sailor's  eye, 
And  maiden's  heart,  blest  mother,  eruide  and  save  I 


SONQ8  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS.  379 


.    TO   A    DEPARTED   SPIRIT. 

FROM  the  bright  stars,  or  from  the  viewless  air, 
Or  from  some  world  unreached  by  human  thought, 
Spirit,  sweet  spirit  I  if  thy  home  be  there, 
And  if  thy  visions  with  the  past  be  fraught, 

Answer  me,  answer  me  I 

Have  we  not  communed  here  of  life  and  death  ? 
Have  we  not  said  that  love,  such  love  as  ours, 
Was  not  to  perish  as  a  rose's  breath, 
To  melt  away,  like  song  from  festal  bowers  ? 

Answer,  oh  1  answer  me  I 

Thine  eye's  last  light  was  mine — the  soul  that  shone 
Intensely,  mournfully,  through  gathering  haze — 
Didst  thou  bear  with  thee  to  the  shore  unknown, 
Nought  of  what  lived  in  that  long,  earnest  gaze  ? 

Hear,  hear,  and  answer  me  I 

Thy  voice — its  low,  soft,  fervent,  farewell  tone 
Thrilled  through  the  tempest  of  the  parting  strife, 
Like  a  faint  breeze  : — oh  I  from  that  music  flown, 
Send  back  one  sound,  if  love's  be  quenchless  life, 

But  once,  oh  I  answer  me  I 

In  the  still  noontide,  in  the  sunset's  hush, 
In  the  dead  hour  of  night,  when  thought  grows  deep, 
When  the  heart's  phantoms  from  the  darkness  rush, 
Fearfully  beautiful,  to  strive  with  sleep — 

Spirit  I  then  answer  me  I 

By  the  remembrance  of  our  blended  prayer ; 
By  all  our  tears,  whose  mingling  made  them  sweet ; 
By  our  last  hope,  the  victor  o'er  despair ; — 
Speak  1  if  our  souls  in  deathless  yearnings  meet ; 
Answer  me,  answer  me  I 

The  grave  is  silent : — and  the  far-off  sky, 
And  the  deep  midnight — silent  all,  and  lone ! 
Oh  I  if  thy  buried  love  make  no  reply, 
What  voice  has  Earth  ?— Hear,  pity,  speak,  mine  own  I 
Answer  me,  answer  me  1 


THE  CHAMOIS  HUNTER'S  LOVE. 

"  For  all  his  wildness  and  proud  fantasies, 
I  love  him  1" — CKOLY. 

THY  heart  Is  in  the  upper  world,  where  fleet  the  Chamois  bounds, 

Thy  heart  is  where  the  mountain-fir  shakes  to  the  torrent-sounds  ; 

And  where  the  snow -peaks  gleam  like  stars,  through  the  stillness  of  the  afr, 

And  where  the  Lauwine's*  peal  is  heard — Hunter  I  thy  heart  is  there  I 


The  avalanche. 


880 


80NQ8  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


I  know  thou  lov'st  me  well,  dear  friend !  but  better,  better  far, 
Thou  lov'st  that  high  and  haughty  life,  with  rocks  and  storms  at  waT| 
In  the  greeR  sunny  vales  with  me,  thy  spirit  would  but  pine— 
And  yet  I  will  be  thine,  my  Love  1  and  yet  I  will  be  thine  1 

And  Twill  not  seek  to  woo  thee  down  from  those  thy  native  height* 
With  the  sweet  song,  our  land's  own  song,  of  pastoral  delights ; 
For  thou  must  live  as  eagles  live,  thy  path  is  not  as  mine— 
And  yet  I  will  be  thine,  my  Love  1  and  yet  I  will  be  thine. 

And  I  will  leave  my  blessed  home,  my  father's  joyous  hearth, 
With  all  the  voices  meeting  there  in  tenderness  and  mirth, 
With  all  the  kind  and  laughing  eyes,  that  in  its  firelight  shine^ 
To  sit  forsaken  in  thy  hut, — yet  know  that  thou  art  mine  1 

It  is  my  youth,  it  is  my  bloom,  it  is  my  glad  free  heart, 
That  I  cast  away  for  thee — for  thee — all  reckless  as  thon  art  I 
With  tremblings  and  with  vigils  lone,  I  bind  myself  to  dwell 
Yet,  yet  I  would  not  change  that  lot, — oh  no !  I  love  too  well! 

A  mournful  thing  is  love  which  grows  to  one  so  wild  as  thou,' 
With  that  bright  restlessness  of  eye,  that  tameless  fire  of  brow  I 
Mournful  I — but  dearer  far  I  call  its  mingled  fear  and -pride, 
And  the  trouble  of  its  happiness,  than  aught  on  earth  beside. 

To  listen  for  thy  step  in  vain,  to  start  at  every  breath, . 

to  watch  through  long,  long  nights  of  storm,  to  sleep  and  dream  of  death, 

To  wake  in  doubt  and. loneliness— this  doom  I  know  is  mine,— 

And  yet  I  will  be  thine,  my  Love  I  and  yet  I  will  be  thine  1 

That  I  may  greet  thee  from  thine  Alps,  when  thence  thou  com'st  at  last, 
That  I  may  hear  thy  thrilling  voice  tell  o'er  .each  danger  past, 
That  I  may  kneel  and  pray  for  thee,  and  win  thee  aid  divine,— 
For  this  I  will  be  thine,  my  Love  I  for  this  I  will  be  thine  J 


THE  INDIAN  WITH  HIS  DEAD  CHILD.* 


IN  the  silence  of  the  midnight 

I  journey  with  my  dead  ; 
In  the  darkness  of  the  forest-boughs, 

A  lonely  path  I  tread. 

But  my  heart  is  high  and  fearless, 
As  by  mighty  wings  upborne  ; 

The  mountain  eagle  bath  not  plumes 
So  strong  as  Love  and  Scorn. 

I  have  raised  thee  from  the  grave-sod, 
By  the  white  man's  path  defiled ; 

On  to  th*  ancestral  wilderness, 
I  bear  thy  dust,  my  child  1 


I  have  asked  the  ancient  deserts 

To  give  my  dead  a  place, 
Where  the  stately  footsteps  of  the  free 

Alone  should  leave  a  trace. 

And  the  tossing  pines  made  answer— 
"  Go,  bring  us  back  thine  own  I" 

And  the  streams  from  all  the  hunters'  hills, 
Rushed  with  an  echoing  tone. 

Thou  shalt  rest  by  sounding  waters 

That  yet  'untamed  may  roll ; 
The  voices  of  that  chainless  host 

With  joy  shall  fill  thy  soul. 


*  An  Indian,  who  had  established  himself  in  a  township  of  Maine,  feeling  Indignantly  tht 
want  of  sympathy  evinced  towards  him  by  the  white  inhabitants,  particularly  on  the  death  of  his 
only  chfla,  gave  up  his  farm  soon  afterwards,  dug  up  the  body  of  his  child,  and  carried  it  with 
him  two  hundred  miles  through  the  forests  to  join  the  Canadian  Indians. — See  TUDOR'S  Ltttett 
fn  tkf  Eastern  Stain  ofAmtricA. 


BONOS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


381 


In  the  silence  of  the  midnight 

I  journey  with  the  dead, 
Where  the  arrows  of  my  father's  bow 

Their  falcon  Sight  have  sped. 

[  have  left  the  spoiler's  dwellings, 

For  evermore,  behind ; 
Un mingled  with  their  household  sounds, 

For  me  shall  sweep  the  wind. 

Alone,  amidst  their  hearth-fires, 

I  watched  my  child's  decay, 
Uncheered,  I  saw  the  spirit-light 

From  his  young  eyes  fade  away. 

When  his  head  sank  on  my  bosom, 
When  the  death-steep  o'er  him  fell, 


Was  there  one  to  say,  "  A  friend  is  near?" 
There  was  none  I — pale  race,  farewell  I 

To  the  forests,  to  the  cedars, 

To  the  warrior  and  his  bow, 
Back,  back  1— I  bore  thee  laughing  thence, 

I  bear  thee  slumbering  now  1 

I  bear  thee  unto  burial 

With  the  mighty  hunters  gone ; 
I  shall  hekr  thee  in  the  forest-breeze, 

Thou  wilt  speak  of  joy,  my  son  1 

In  the  silence  of  the  midnight 

I  journey  with  the  dead  ; 
But  my  heart  is  strong,  my  step  is  fled, 

My  father's  path  I  tread. 


SONG  OF  EMIGRATION. 

THERE  was  heard  a  song  on  the  chiming  sea,  j 

A  mingled  breathing  of  grief  and  glee ; 

Man's  voice,  unbroken  by  sighs,  was  there* 

Filling  with  triumph  the  sunny  air ; 

Of  fresh  green  lands,  and  of  pastures  new, 

It  sang,  while  the  bark  through  the  surges  flew. 

But  ever  and  anon 

A  murmur  of  farewell 
Told,  by  its  plaintive  tone, 

That  from  woman's  lip  it  fell. 

**  Away,  away  o'er  the  foaming  main  !" — 
This  was  the  free  and  the  joyous  strain— 

•'There  are  clearer  skies  than.ours,  afar, 
We  will  shape  our  course  by  a  brighter  star ; 
There  are  plains  whose  verdure  no  foot  hath  pressed, 
And  whose  wealth  is  all  for  the  first  brave  guest." 

"  But  alas  I  that  we  should  go"— 
Sang  the  farewell  voices  then — 
1(<  From  the  homesteads,  warm  and  low, 
By  the  brook  and  in  the  glen  !" 

•'  We  will  rear  new  homes  under  trees  that  glow, 
As  if  gems  were  the  fruitage  of  every  bough ; 
O'er  our  white  walls  we  will  train  the  vine, 
And  sit  in  its  shadow  at  day's  decline  ; 
And  watch  our  herds,  as  they  range  at  will 
Through  the  green  savannas,  all  bright  and  stilL 

"  But  woe  for  that  sweet  shade 

Of  the  flowering  orchard-trees, 
Where  first  our  children  played 
'Midst  the  birds  and  honey-bee£  I* 

"  Ah,  all  our  own  shall  the  forests  be. 
As  to  the  bound  of  the  roebuck  free  I 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

None  shall  say,  '  Hither,  no  further  pass !' 
We  will  track  each  step  through  the  wavy  grass ; 
We  will  chase  the  elk  in  his  speed  and  might, 
And  bring  proud  spoils  to  the  earth  at  night." 

"  But,  oh  !  the  grey  church-tower, 
And  the  sound  of  Sabbath-bell, 
And  the  sheltered  garden-bower,— 
We  have  bid  them  all  farewell  I" 

"  We  will  give  the  names  of  our  fearless  race 
To  each  bright  river  whose  course  we  trace  ; 
We  will  leave  our  memory  with  mounts  and  floods 
And  the  path  of  our  daring  in  boundless  woods  1 
And  our  works  unto  many  a  lake's  green  shore, 
Where  the  Indians  graves  lay,  alone,  before." 

"  But  who  shall  teach  the  flowers, 

Which  our  children  loved,  to  dwell 
In  a  soil  that  is  not  ours  ?— 
Home,  home  and  friends,  farewell  I" 


THE  KING  OF  ARRAGON'S  LAMENT  FOR  HIS  BROTHER.' 
".If  I  could  see  him,  it  were  well  with  me  I"— COLERIDGK'S  WalUnsteitt. 

THERE  were  lights  and  sounds  of  revelling  in  the  vanquished  city's  balls, 
As  by  night  the  feast  of  victory  was  held  within  its  walls  ; 
And  the  conquerors  filled  the  wine-cup  high,  after  years  of  bright  blood  shed  • 
But  their  Lord,  the  King  of  Arragon,  'midst  the  triumph,  wailed  the  dead. 

He  looked  down  from  the  fortress  won,  on  the  tents  and  flowers  below, 
The  moonlit  sea,  the  torchlit  streets, — and  a  gloom  came  o'er  his  brow  : 
The  voice  of  thousands  floated  up,  with  the  horn  and  cymbal's  tone  ; 
But  his  heart,  'midst  that  proud  music,  felt  more  utterly  alone. 

And  he  cried,  "Thou  art  mine,  fair  city  I  thou  city  of  the  sea ! 
But,  oh  1  what  portion  of  delight  is  mine  at  last  in  thee? — 
I  am  lonely  'midst  thy  palaces,  while  the  glad  waves  past  them  roll. 
And  the  soft  breath  of  thine  orange-bowers  is  mournful  to  my  soul. 

"My  brother  1  O  my  brother  I  thou  art  gone, — the  true  and  brave, 
And  the  haughty  joy  of  victory  hath  died  upon  thy  grave  ; 
There  are  many  round  my  throne  to  stand,  and  to  march  where  I  lead  on  ; 
There  was  one  to  lave  me  in  the  world, — my  brother  1  thou  art  gone  1 

"  In  the  desert,  in  the  battle,  in  the  ocean-tempest's  wrath, 
-We  stood  together  side  by  side  ;  one  hope  was  ours, — one  path  ; 
Thou  hast  wrapped  me  in  thy  soldier's  cloak,  thou  hast  fenced  me  with  thy  breast  ; 
Thou  hast  watched  beside  my  couch  of  pain— oh  I  bravest  heart,  and  best  I 

"  I  see  the  festive  lights  around  ; — o'er  a  dull  sad  world  they  shine ; 
I  hear  the  voice  of  victory — my  Pedro  I  where  is  thine  t 
.The  only  voice  in  whose  kind  tone  my  spirit  found  reply  1— 
O  brother  1  I  have  bought  too  dear  this  hollow  pageantry  1 

•  The  grief  of  Ferdinand,  King  of  Arragon,  for  the  loss  of  his  brother,  Don  Pedro,  who  wai 
killed  during  the  siege  of  Naples,  is  affectingly  described  by  the  historian  Mariana,  It  i*  also 
the  subject  of  pue  of  the  old  Spanish  Ballads  u>  Logkhart'*  beautiful  collection 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS.  383 

"  I  have  hosts,  and  gallant  fleets,  to  spread  my  glory  and  my  sway, 
And  chiefs  to  lead  them  fearlessly; — my/riend  hath  passed  away  I 
For  the  kindly  look,  the  word  of  cheer,  my  heart  may  thirst  in  vain, 
And  the  face  that  was  as  light  to  mine — it  cannot  come  again  I 

"  I  have  made  thy  blood,  thy  faithful  blood,  the  offering  for  a  crown  ; 
With  love,  which  earth  bestows  not  twice,  I  have  purchased  cold  renown ; 
How  often  will  my  weary  heart  'midst  the  sounds  of  triumph  die, 
When  I  think  of  thee,  my  brother  I  thou  flower  of  chivalry  I 

"  I  am  lonely — I  am  lonely  1  -this  rest  is  even  as  death  1 
Let  me  hear  again  the  ringing  spears,  andthe  battle-trumpet's  breatn  ; 
Let  me  see  the  fiery  charger  foam,  and  the  royal  banner  wave — 
But  where  art  thou,  my  brother?  where? — in  thy  low  and  early  grave  I" 

And  louder  swelled  the  songs  of  joy  through  that  victorious  night, 
And  faster  flowed  the  red  wine  forth,  by  the  stars'  and  torches'  light ; 
But  low  and  deep,  .amidst  the  mirth,  was  beard  the  conqueror's  moan— 
11  My  brother  I  O  my  brother  I  best  and  bravest  I  thou  art  gone  1" 


THE    RETURN. 

H  HAST  thou  come  with  the  heart  of  thy  childhood  back  ? 

The  free,  the  pure,  the  kind  f 
So  murmured  the  trees  in  my  homeward  track, 
As  they  played  to  the  mountain-wind. 

u  Hath  thy  soul  been  true  to  its  early  love  ?" 

Whispered  my  native  streams  ; 
u  Hath  the  spirit  nursed  amidst  hill  and  grove, 

Still  revered  its  first  high  dreams  ?" 

•*  Hast  thou  borne  in  thy  bosom  the  holy  prayer 

Of  the  child  in  his  parent-halls,?" — 
Thus  breathed  a  voice  on  the  thrilling  air, 
From  the  old  ancestral  walls. 

N  Hast  thou  kept  thy  faith  with  the  faithful  dead, 

Whose  place  of  rest  is  nigh  ? 
With  the  father's  blessing  o'er  thee  shed, 
With  the  mother's  trusting  eye  ?" — 

Then  my  tears  gushed  forth  in  sudden  ralu, 

As  I  answered — "  O  ye  shades  I 
I  bring  not  my  childhood's  heart  again 

To  the  freedom  of  your  glades. 

"  I  have  turned  from  my  first  pure  love  aside, 

O  bright  and  happy  streams  I 
Light  after  light,  in  my  soul  have  died 
The  day-spring's  glorious  dreams. 

"  And  the  holy  prayer  from  my  thoughts  hath  passed— 

The  prayer  at  my  mother's  knee  ; 
Darkened  and  troubled  I  come  at  last 
Home  of  my  boyish  glee  I 


384- 


BONQB  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


"  But  I  bear  from  my  childhood  a  gift  of  tears, 

To  soften  and  atone ; 
And  oh !  ye  scenes  of  those  blessed  years 
They  shall  make  me  again  your  own." 


THE  VAUDOIS  WIFE. 

"  Clasp  me  a  little  longer,  on  the  brink 

Of  fate  I  while  I  can  feel  thy  dear  caress  : 
And  when  this  heart  hath  ceased  to  beat,  oh  t  think— 

And  let  It  mitigate  thy  woe's  excess — 

That  thou  to  me  hast  been  all  tenderness, 
And  friend,  to  more  than  human  friendship  just 

Oh  I  by  that  retrospect  of  happiness, 
And  by  the  hopes  of  an  immortal  trust, 
God  shall  assuage  thy  pangs,  when  I  am  laid  in  dust" 

Gertrude  of  Wyoming. 


THY  voice  is  in  my  ear,  beloved! 

Thy  look  is  in  my  heart, 
Thy  bosom  is  my  resting-place, 

And  yet  I  must  depart. 
Earth  on  my  soul  is  strong — too  strong— 

Too  precious  is  its  chain, 
All  woven  of  thy  love,  dear  friend, 

Yet  vain— though  mighty—vain  I 

Thou  see'st  mine  eye  grow  dim,  beloved! 

Thou  see'st  my  life-blood  flow,— 
Bow  to  the  chastener  silently, 

And  calmly  let  me  go  I 
A  little  while  between  our  hearts 

The  shadowy  gulf  must  lie, 
Yet  have  we  for  their  communing 

Still,  still  Eternity  I 

Alas  1  thy  tears  are  on  my  cheek, 

My  spirit  they  detain ; 
I  know  that  from  thine  agony 

Is  wrung  that  burning  rain. 
Best,  kindest,  weep  not ;— make  the  pang, 

The  bitter  conflict,  less— 
Oh  I  sad  it  is,  and  yet  a  joy, 

To  feel  thy  love's  excess  I 

But  calm  thee  I    Let  the  thought  of  death 

A  solemn  peace  restore ! 
The  voice  that  must  be  silent  soon, 

Would  speak  to  thee  once  more, 
That  thou  mayst  bear  its  blessing  on 

Through  years  of  after-life — 
A  token  of  consoling  love, 

Even  from  this  hour  of  strife. 


I  bless  thee  for  the  noble  heart 

The  tender  and  the  true, 
Where  mine  hath  found  the  happiest  rest 

That  e'er  fond  woman's  knew  ; 
I  bless  thee,  faithful  friend  and  guide. 

For  my  own,  my  treasured  share, 
In  the  mournful  secrets  of  thy  soul, 

In  thy  sorrow,  hi  thy  prayer. 

I  bless  thee  for  kind  looks  and  words 

Showered  on  my  path  like  dew, 
For  all  the  love  in  those  deep  eyes, 

A  gladness  ever  new  I 
For  the  voice  which  ne'er  to  mine  replied 

But  in  kindly  tones  of  cheer ; 
For  every  spring  of  happiness 

My  soul  hath  tasted  here  \ 

I  bless  thee  for  the  last  rich  boon 

Won  from  affection  tried, 
The  right  to  gaze  on  death  with  thee, 

To  perish  by  thy  side  I  * 

And  yet  more  for  the  glorious  hope 

Even  to  these  moments  given — 
Did  not  thy  spirit  ever  lift 

The  trust  of  mine  to  Heaven  ? 

Now  be  thou  strong !    Oh  I  knew  we  not 

Our  path  must  l£ad  to  this? 
A  shadow  and  a  trembling  still 

Were  mingled  with  our  bliss  1 
We  plighted  our  young  hearts  when  stormz 

Were  dark  upon  the  sky, 
ID  full,  deep  knowledge  of  their  task 

To  suffer  and  to  die  1 


*  The  wife  of  a  Vaudols  leader,  In  one  of  the  attacks  made  on  the  Protestant  hamlets,  rectlvtd 
ft  zaorUl  wound,  and  died  in  her  husband's  arms,  exhorting  him  to  courage  and  endurance 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


385 


Be  strong  V  I  leave  the  living  voice 

Of  this,  my  martyred  blood, 
With  the  thousand  echoes  of  the  hills, 

With  the  torrent's  foaming  flood,— 
A  :,pirit  'midst  the  caves  to  dwell, 

A  token  on  the  air, 
To  rouse  the  valiant  from  repose, 

The  fainting  from  despair. 


Hear  it,  and  bear  thou  on,  my  love  I 

Ay,  joyously  endure  I 
Our  mountains  must  be  altars  yet, 

Inviolate  and  pure ; 
There  must  our  God  be  worshipped  still 

With  the  worship  of  the  free — 
Farewell  F — there's  but  one  pang  in  death 

One  only,— leaving  thee  I 


THE  GUERILLA  LEADER'S  VOW. 

"  All  my  pretty  ones  I 
Did  you  say  all  ? 

*  *  4  *  « 

Let  us  make  medicine  of  this  great  revenge, 
To  cure  this  deadly  grief  '"—Macbeth. 


MY  battle-vow  t — no  minster  walls 

Gave  back  the  burning  word, 
Nor  cross  nor  shrine  the  low  deep  tont» 

Of  smothered  vengeance  heard  ' 
But  the  ashes  of  a  ruined  home 

Thrilled,  as  it  sternly  rose, 
With  the  mingling  voice  of  blood  that  shook 

The  midnight's  dark  repose. 

I  breathed  it  not  o'er  kingly  tombs, 

But  where  my  children  lay, 
And  the  startled  vulture,  at  my  step. 

Soared  from  their  precious  clay. 
1  stood  amidst  my  dead  alone — 

I  kissed  their  lips — I  poured, 
In  the^strong  silence  of  that  hour, 

My  spirit  on  my  sword. 

The  roof-tree  fallen,  the  smouldering  floor, 

The  blackened  threshold-stone,  . 

The  bright  hair  torn,  and  soiled  with  blood, 

Whose  fountain  was  my  own ; 
These,  and  the  everlasting  hills, 

Bore  witness  that  wild  night ; 
Before  them  rose  tb*  avenger's  soul, 

ID  crushed  affection's  might. 


The  stars,  the  searching  stars  of  heaven. 
With  keen  looks  would  upbraid, 

If  from  my  heart  the  fiery  vow, 
Seared  on  it  then,  bould  fade. 

They  have  no  cause  I — Go,  ask  the  streams 
That  by  my  paths  have  swept, 

The  red  waves  that  unstained  were  born- 
How  hath  my  faith  been  kept? 

And  other  eyes  are  on  my  soul 

That  never,  never  close, 
The  sad,  sweet  glances  of  the  lost— 

They  leave  me  no  repose. 
Haunting  my  night-watch  'midst  the  rocks, 

And  by  the  torrent's  foam, 
Through  the  dark-rolling  mists  they  shine, 

Full,  full  of  love  and  home  I 

Alas !  the  mountain-eagle's  heart, 

When  wronged,  may  yet  find  rest 
Scorning  the  place  made  desolate, 

He  seeks  another  nest. 
But  I — your  soft  looks  wake  the  thirst 

That  wins  no  quenching  rain ; 
Ye  drive  me  back,  my  beautiful  I 

To  the  stormy  fight  again  I 


THEKLA  AT  HER  LOVER'S  GRAVE. 

"  Thither  where  he  lies  buried  I 
That  single  spot  is  the  whole  world  to  me." 

COLERIDGE'S  WalUmto 

THY  voice  was  in  my  soul  I  it  called  me  on , 
O  my  lost  friend  I  thy  voice  was  in  my  soul : 

From  the  cold,  faded  world,  whence  thou  art  gone. 
To  hear  no  more  life's  troubled  billows  roll, 
1  come,  I  come  I 


386  80N08  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

Now  speak  to  me  again  !  we  loved  so  well— 
We  laved!  oh  I  still  I  know  that  still  we  love  I 

I  have  left  all  things  with  thy  dust  to  dwell, 
Through  these  dim  aisles  in  dreams  of  thee  to  rovtf ; 
This  is  my  home  1 

Speak  to  me  in  the  thrilling  minster's  gloom  ! 

Speak  I  thou  hast  died,  and  sent  me  no  farewell  I 
I  will  not  shrink  ; — oh  I  mighty  is  the  tomb, 

But  one  thing  mightier  which  it  cannot  quell. 
This  woman's  heart ! 

This  lone,  full,  fragile  heart ! — the  strong  alone 
In  love  and  grief — of  both -the  burning  shrine  ! 

Thou,  my  soul's  friend  1  with  grief  hast  surely  done, 
But  with  the  love  which  made  thy  spirit  mine, 
Say,  couldst  thou  part? 

I  hear  the  rustling  banners :  and  I  hear 
The  wind's  low  singing  through  the  fretted  stone  ; 

I  hear  not  thee  ;  and  yet  I  feel  thee  near — 
What  is  this  bound  that  keeps  tbee  from  thine  own  ? 
Breathe  it  away  1 

I  wait  thee — I  adjure  thee  I  hast  thou  known 
How  I  have  loved  thee  1  couldst  thou  dream  it  all? 

Am  I  not  here,  with  night  and  death  alone, 
And  fearing  not?  and  hath  my  spirit's  call 
O'er  thine  no  sway  ? 

Thou  canst  not  come  I  or  thus  I  should  not  weep ' 
Thy  love  is  deathless — but  no  longer  free  ! 

Soon  would  its  wing  triumphantly  o'ersweep 
The  viewless  barrier,  if  such  power  might  be, 
Soon,  soon,  and  fast  I 

But  I  shall  come  to  thee  !  our  souls'  deep  dreams, 
Our  young  affections,  have  not  gushed  in  vain  ; 

Soon  in  one  tide  shall  blend  the  severed  streams, 
The  worn  heart  break  its  bonds — and  death  and  pain 
Be  with  the  past  I 


THE  SISTERS  OF  SCIO. 

"  As  are  our  hearts,  our  way  is  one. 
And  cannot  be  divided.     Strong  affection 
Contends  with  all  things,  and  o'ercometh  all  thlngt 
Will  I  not  live  with  thee  f  will  1  not  cheer  thee? 
Wouldst  thou  be  lonely  then  ?  wouldst  thou  be  sad  f 

JOANNA  BAILLM- 

"  SISTER,  sweet  sister  I  let  me  weep  awhile  I 

Bear  with  me — give  the  sudden  passion  way  I 
Thoughts  of  our  own  lost  home,  our  sunny  isle, 
Come,  as  a  wind  that  o'er  a  reed  hath  sway ; 
Till  my  heart  dies  with  yearnings  and  sick  fears ;— - 
Oh  I  could  mv  life  melt  from  me  in  these  tears  t 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS.  387 

M  Our  father's  voice,  OUT  mother's  gentle  eye, 

Our  brother's  bounding  step— where  are  they,  where  ? 
Desolate,  desolate  our  chambers  lie  ! — 

How  hast  thou  won  thy  spirit  from  despair  ? 
O'er  mine  swift  shadows,  gusts  of  terror,  sweep  ;— 
I  sink  away— bear  with  me— let  me  weep  I" 

"  Yes  1  weep,  my  sister  !  weep,  till  from  thy  heart 
The  weight  flow  forth  in  tears  ;  yet  sink  thou  not  t 

\  bind  my  sorrow  to  a  lofty  part, 
For  thee,  my  gentle  one  !  our  orphan  lot 

To  meet  in  quenchless  trust ;  my  soul  is  strong-  - 

Thou,  too,  wilt  rise  in  holy  might  ere  long. 

<:  A  breath  of  our  free  heavens  and  noble  sires, 

A  memory  of  our.old  victorious  dead, — 
These  mantle  me  with  power  1  and  though  their  fires 

In  a  frail  censer  briefly  may  be  shed, 
Yet  shall  they  light  us  onward,  side  by  side ; — 
Have  the  wild  birds,  and  have  not  we,  a  guide  ? 

••  Cheer,  then,  beloved  1  on  whose  meek  brow  is  set 

Our  mother's  image — in  whose  voice  a  tone, 
A  faint  sweet  sound  of  hers  is  lingering  yet, 

An  echo  of  our  childhood's  music  gone  ; — 
Cheer  thee  I  thy  sister's  heart  and  faith  are  high  ; 
Our  path  is  one — with  thee  I  bve  and  die  I" 


BERNARDO  DEL  CARP1O. 

[The  celebrated  Spanish  champion,  Bernardo  del  Carpio,  having  madi  many  ineffectual  efforts 
to  procure  the  release  of  his  father,  the  Count  Saldana,  who  had  been  imprisoned  by  King 
Alfonso  of  Astunas,  almost  from  the  time  of  Bernardo's  brrlh,  at  last  took  up  arms  in  despair 
The  war  which  he  maintained  proved  so  destructive,  that  the  men  of  the  land  gathered  round  the 
King,  and  united  in  demanding  Saldana';  liberty  Alfonso,  accordingly,  offered  Bernardo  imme- 
diate possession  of  his,  father's  person,  ic  exchange  for  his  castle  of  Carpio  Bernardo,  without 
hesitation,  gave  up  his  stronghold,  with  all  his  captives  ,  and  being  assured  that  his  father  was 
then  on  his  way  from  prison,  rode  forth  with  the  King  to  meet  him.  "And  when  he  saw  his 
tathei  approaching,  he  exclaimed,"  says  the  ancient  chronicle,  "'Oh,  God  I  is  the  Count  ot 
Saldana  indeed  coming ?* — '  Look  where  he  is,'  replied  the  cruel  King,  'and  now  go  and  greet 
him  whom  you  have  so  long  desired  to  see  ' "  The  remainder  of  the  story  will  be  found  related  ir 
the  ballad.  The  chronicles  and  romances  leave  us  nearly  in  the  dark  as  to  Bernardo's  history 
after  this  event] 

THE  warrior  bowed  his  crested  head,  and  tamed  his  heart  of  fire, 
And  sued  the  haughty  king  to  free  his  long-imprisoned  sire  ; 
"  I  bring  thee  here  my  fortress  keys,  I  bring  my  captive  train, 
1  pledge  thee  faith,  my  liege,  my  lord  I— oh,  break  my  father's  chain  I" 

"  Rise,  rise !  even  now  thy  father  comes,  a  ransomed  man  this  day ; 
Mount  thy  good  horse,  and  thou  and  I  will  meet  him  on  his  way." 
Then  lightly  rose  that  loyal  son,  and  bounded  on  his  steed, 
And  urged,  as  if  with  lance, in  rest,  the  charger's  foamy  speed. 

And  lo  1  from  far,  as  on  they  pressed,  there  came  a  glittering  band. 
With  one  that  'midst  them  stately  rode,  as  a  leader  in  the  land  ; 
"  Now  haste,  Bernardo,  haste  I  for  there,  in  very  truth,  is  he,  < 

The  father  whom  thy  faithful  heart  hath  yearned  so  long  to  see. 


388  80NG8  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

His  dark  eye  flashed,  his  proud  breast  heaved,  his  cheek's  blood  came  and  went* 
He  reached  that  grey-haired  chieftain's  side,  and  there,  dismounting,  bent ; 
A  lowly  knee  to  earth  he  bent,  his  father's  hand  he.took, — 
What  was  there  in  its  touch  that  all  his  fiery  spirit  shook? 

That  hand  was  cold — a  frozen  thing — it  dropped  from  his  like  lead,— 
He  looked  up  to  the  face  above — the  face  was  of  the  dead  ! 
A  plume  waved  o'er  the  noble  brow — the  brow  was  fixed  and  white  ;— 
He  met  at  last  his  father's  eyes — but  in  them  was  no  sight  1 

Up  from  the  ground  he  sprang,  and  gazed,  but  who  could  paint  that  gaze? 
They  hushed  their  very  hearts,  that  saw  its  horror  and  amaze  ; 
They  might  have  chained  him,  as  before  that  stony  form  he  stood, 
For  the  power  was  stricken  from  his  arm,  and  from  his  lip  the  blood. 

"  Father  1"  at  length  he  murmured  low — and  wept  like  childhood  then,-' 
Talk  not  of  grief  till  thou  hast  seen  the  tears  of  warlike  men  1 — 
He  thought  on  all  his  glorious  hopes,  and  all  his  young  renown,— 
He  flung  the  falchion  from  his  side,  and  in  the  dust  sat  down. 

Then  covering  with  his  steel-gloved  hands  his  darkly  mournful  brovr, 
"  No  more,  there  is  no  more,"  he  said,  "  to  lift  the  sword  for  now.— 
My  king  is  false,  my  hope  betrayed,  my  father,  oh !  the  worth, 
The  glory,  and  the  loveliness,  are  passed  away  from  earth  I 

"  I  thought  to  stand  where  banners  waved,  my  sire !  beside  thee  yet, 
I  would  that  there  our  kindred  blood  on  Spain's  free  soil. had  met, — 
Thou  wouldst  have  known  my  spirit  then, — for  thee  my  fields  were  won,— 
And  thou  hast  perished  in  thy  chains,  as  though  thou  hadst  no  son  1" 

Then,  starting  from  the  ground  once  more,  he  seized  the  monarch's  rein, 
Amidst  the  pale  and  wildered  looks  of  all  the  courtier  train  ; 
And  with  a  fierce,  o'ermastering  grasp,  the  rearing  war-horse  led, 
And  sternly  set  them  face  to  face, — the  king  before  the  dead  1— 

' '  Came  I  not  forth  upon  thy  pledge,  my  father's  hand  to  kiss?— 
Be  still,  and  gaze  thou  on,  false  king  1  and  tell  me  what  is  this  ! 
The  voice,  the  glance,  the  heart  I  sought— give  answer,  where  are  they  ?— 
If  thou  wouldst  clear  thy  perjured  soul,  send  Life  through  this  cold  clay  I 

"  Into  these  glassy  eyes  put  light,— be  still  1  keep  down  thine  ire,— 
Bid  these  white  lips  a  blessing  speak — this  earth  is  not  my  sire  I 
Give  me  back  him  for  whom  I  strove,  for  whom  my  blood  was  shed,— 
Thou  canst  not — and  a  king  1    His  dust  be  mountains  on  thy  head  1" 

He  loosed  the  steed  ;  his  slack  hand  fell,— upon  the  silent  face 

He  cast  one-long,  deep,  troubled  look, — then  turned  from  that  sad  place : 

His  hope  was  crushed,  his  after-fate  untold  in  martial  strain, — 

His  banner  led  the  spears  no  more  amidst  the  hills  of  Spain. 


THE  TOMB  OF  MADAME  LANGHANS. 

*•  To  a  mysteriously  consorted  pair 
This  place  is  consecrate ;  to  death  and  life, 
And  to  the  best  affections  that  proceed 
From  this  conjunction." — WORDSWORTH. 

[At  Hlndelbank,  near  Berne,  she  is  represented  as  bursting  from  the  sepulchre,  with  b«f 
Infant  in  her  arms,  at  the  sound  of  the  last  trumpet.  An  inscription  on  the  tomb  concludes  thus  :— 
"  Here  am  I .  O  God  I  with  the  child  whom  Thou  hast  given  me."] 

How  many  hopes  were  borne  upon  thy  bier, 
O  bride  of  stricken  love  1  in  anguish  hither  1 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS.  389 

Like  flowers,  the  first  and  fairest  of  the  year 
Plucked  on  the  bosom  of  the  dead  to  wither  ; 
Hopes,  from  their  source  all  holy,  though  of  earth. 
All  brightly  gathering  round  affection's  hearth. 

Of  mingled  prayer  they  told ;  of  Sabbath  hours ; 
Of  morn's  farewell,  and  evening's  blessed  meeting  ; 
Of  childhood's  voice,  amidst  the  household  bowers ; 
And  bounding  step,  and  smile  of  joyous  greeting  ;— 
But  thou,  young  mother  !  to  thy  gentle  heart 
Didst  take  thy  babe,  and  meekly  so  depart. 

How  many  hopes  have  sprung  in  radiance  hence  I 

Their  trace  yet  lights  the  dust  where  thou  art  sleeping  t 

A  solemn  joy  comes  o'er  me,  and  a  sense 

Of  triumph,  blent  with  nature's  gush  of  weeping, 

As,  kindling  up  the  silent  stone,  I  see 

The  glorious  vision,  caught  by  faith,  of  thee. 

Slumberer  1  love  calls  thee,  for  the  night  is  past ; 
Put  on  the  immortal  beauty  of  thy  waking  1 
Captive !  and  hear'st  thou  not  the  trumpet's  blast, 
The  long,  victorious  note,  thy  bondage  breaking  ? 
Thou  hear'st,  thou  answer's!,  "God  of  earth  and  heaven  I 
Here  am  I,  with  the  child  whom  Thou  hast  given  I " 


THE   EXILE'S   DIRGE. 

"  Pear  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun, 
Nor  the  furious  winter's  rages, 
Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  done, 
Home  art  gone,  and  ta'en  thy  wages." — Cyntbeliite. 

f "  I  attended  a  funeral  where  there  were  a  number  of  the  German  settlers  present.  After  I 
had  performed  such  service  as  is  usual  on  similar  occasions,  a  most  venerable-looking  old  mac 
came  forward,  and  asked  me  if  I  were  willing  that  they  should  perform  some  of  their  peculiar  rites. 
He  opened  a  very  ancient  version  of  Luther's  Hymns,  and  they  all  began  to  sing,  in  German,  so 
loud  that  the  woods  echoed  the  strain.  There  was  something  affecting  in  the  singing  of  these 
ancient  people,  carrying  one  of  their  brethren  to  his  last  home,  and  using  the  language  and  rites 
which  they  had  brought  with  them  over  the  sea  from  the  Vaterland,  a  word  which  often  occurred 
ID  this  hymn.  It  was  a  long,  slow,  and  mournful  air,  which  they  sang  as  they  bore  the  body 
along  ;  the  words  ' mein  Gott,'  '  mein  Bruder,'  and  '  Vaterland"  died  away  in  distant  echoes 
amongst  the  woods.  I  shall  long  remember  that  funeral  hymn  " — FLINT'S  RtcolUctiom  o 
of  the  Mississippi.} 

THERE  went  a  dirge  through  the  forest  s  gloom.— 
An  exile  was  borne  to  a  lonely  tomb. 

"  Brother  ! "  (so  the  chant  was  sung 

In  the  slumberer's  native  tongue), 
••  Friend  and  brother  I  not  for  thee 

Shall  the  sound  of  weeping  be  :-— 

Long  the  Exile's  woe  hath  lain      ., 

On  thy  life  a  withering  chain  ; 

Music  from  thine  own  blue  streams, 

Wandered  through  thy  fever-dreams 

Voices  from  thy  country's  vines, 

Met  thee  'midst  the  alien  pines, 

And  thy  true  heart  died  away ; 

And  thy  spirit  would  not  stay." 


390  SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

83  swelled  the  chant !  and  the  deep  wind's  -moan 
Seemed  through  the  cedars  to  murmur — "  Gone!1 

"  Brother  !  by  the  rolling  Rhine, 
Stands  the  home  that  once  .was  thine— 
Brother  !  now  thy  dwelling  lies 
Where  the  Indian  arrow  flies ! 
He  that  blest  thine  infant  head. 
Fills  a  distant  greensward  bed  ; 
She  that  heard  thy  lisping  prayer, 
Slumbers  low  beside  him  there  ; 
They  that  earliest  with  thee  played, 
Rest  beneath  their  own  oak  shade, 
Far,  far  hence  1 — yet  sea  nor  shore 
Haply,  brother  1  part  ye  more  ; 
God  hath  called  thee  to  that  band 
In  the  immortal  Fatherland  1 " 

"  The  Fatherland/"— vnXh  that  sweet  word 
A  burst  of  tears  'midst  the  strain  was  heard. 

"  Brother  1  were  we  there  with  thee 
Rich  would  many  a  meeting  be  I 
Many  a  broken  garland  bound, 
Many  a  mourned  and  lost  one  found  > 
But  our  task  is  still  to  bear, 
Still  to  breathe  in  changeful  air ; 
Loved  and  bright  things  to  resign, 
As  even  now  this  dust  of  thine ; 
Yet  to  hope  1 — to  hope  in  Heaven, 
Though  flowers  fall,  and  ties  be  riven— 
Yet  to  pray  1  and  wait  the  hand 
Beckoning  to  the  Fatherland  1 " ; 

And  the  requiem  died  in  the  forest's  gloom  ;— 
They  had  reached  the  Exile's  lonely  tomb. 


THE  DREAMING  CHILD. 

"  Alas  !  what  kind  of  grief  should  thy  years  know  f 
Thy  brow  and  cheek  are  smooth  as  waters  be 
When  no  breath  troubles  them." — BEAUMONT  AMD  FLETCHER 

AND  is  there  sadness  in  thy  dreams,  my  boy  ? 
What  should  the  cloud  be  made  of? — blessed  child  1 
Thy  spirit,  borne  upon  a  breeze  of  joy, 
All  day  hath  ranged  through  sunshine,  clear,  yet  mild : 

And  now  thou  tremblest  I — wherefore  ? — in  thy  soul 
There  lies -no  past,  no  future. — Thou  hast  heard 
No  sound  of  presage  from  the  distance  roll, 
Thy  heart  bears  traces  of  no  arrowy  word. 

From  thee  no  love  hath  gone ;  thy  mind's  young  eye 
Hath  looked  not  into  Death's,  and  thence  become 
A  questioner  of  mute  Eternity, 
A  weary  searcher  for  a. viewless  Lome  : 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


wi: 


Nor  hath  thy  sense  been  quickened  unto  pain, 
By  feverish  watching  for  some  step  beloved  ; 
Free  are  thy  thoughts,  an  ever-changeful  train, 
Glancing  like  dewdrops,  and  as  lightly  moved. 

Yet  now,  on  billows  of  strange  passion  tossed 
How  art  thou  wildered  in  the  cave  of  sleep  ! 
My  gentle  child  !  'midst  what  dim  phantoms  lost, 
Thus  in  mysterious  anguish  dost  thou  weep  ? 

Awake  I  they  sadden  me — those  early  tears, 
First  gushings  of  the  strong  dark  river's  flow, 
That  must  o'ersweep  thy  soul  with  coming  years 
Th'  unfathomable  flood  of  human  woe  I 

Awful  to  watch,  e'en  rolling  through  a  dream, 
Forcing  wild  spray-drops  but  from  childhood's  eyes  1 
Wake,  wake  I  as  yet  thy  life's  transparent  stream 
Should  wear  the  tinge  of  none  but  summer  skies. 

Come  from  the  shadow  of  those  realms  unknown, 
Where  now  thy  thoughts  dismayed  and  darkling  rove ; 
Come  to  the  kindly  region  all  thine  own, 
The  home,  still  bright  for  thee  with  guardian  love. 

Happy,  fair  child  I  that  yet  a  mother's  voice 
Can  win  thee  back  from  visionary  strife  I — 
Oh  I  shall  my  soul,  thus  wakened  to  rejoice, 
Start  from  the  dreamlike  wilderness  of  life? 


THE  CHARMED  PICTURE. 

'  Oh  I  that  those  lips  had  language  !— Life  hath  passed 
With  me  but  roughly  since  I  saw  thee  last."— COWPER. 


THINE  eyes  are  charmed — thine  earnest 
eyes — 

Thou  image  of  the  dead  I 
(\  spell  within  their  sweetness  lies, 

A  virtue  thence  is  shed. 

Oft  in  their  meek  blue  light  enshrintd, 

A  blessing  seems  to  be, 
And  sometimes  there  my  wayward  mind 

A  still  reproach  can  see : 

And  sometimes  Pity — soft  and  deep, 
And  quivering  through  a  tear ; 

Even  as  if  Love  in  Heaven  could  weep. 
For  Grief  left  drooping  here, 

And  oh  I  my  spirit  needs  that  balm, 

Needs  it  'midst  fitful  mirth  ; 
And  in  the  night-hour's  naunted  calm, 

And  by  the  lonely  hearth. 

Look  on  me  thus,  when  hollow  praise 

Hath  made  the  weary  pine 
For  one  true  tone  of  other  days, 

One  glance  of  love  like  thins:  I 


Look  on  me  thus,  when  sudden  glee 

Bears  my  quick  heart  along, 
On  wings  that  struggle  to  be  free, 

As  bursts  of  skylark  song. 

In  vain,  in  vain  ; — too  soon  are  felt 
The  wounds  they  cannot  flee ; 

Better  in  childlike  tears  to  melt, 
Pouring  my  soul  on  thee  I 

Sweet  face,  that  o'er  my  childhood  shone, 
Whence  Is  thy  power  of  change, 

Thus  ever  shadowing  back  my  own, 
The  rapid  and  the  strange  ? 

Whence  are  they  charmed— those  earnest 
eyes  ? — 

I  know  the  mystery  well  I 
In  mine  own  trembling  bosom  lit* 

The  spirit  of  the  spell  I 

Of  Memory,  Conscience,  Love,  'tis  born— 
Oh  I  change  no  longer,  thou  ! 

For  ever  be  the  blessing  worn 
On  thy  pure  thoughtful  brow  I 


392  SONGB  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

PARTING  WORDS. 

"  One  struggle  more,  and  I  am  free." — BYRON. 

LEAVE  me,  oh,  leave  me  I — unto  all  below 
Thy  presence  binds  me  with  too  deep  a  spell ; 
Thou  mak'st  those  mortal  regions,-  whence  I  g« 
Too  mighty  in  their  loveliness — farewell, 

That  I  may  part  in  peace  1 

Leave  me  I — thy  footstep,  with  its  lightest  sound. 
The  very  shadow  of  thy  waving  hair, 
Wakes  in  my  soul  a  feeling  too  profound, 
Too  strong  for  aught  that  loves  and  dies,  to  beat— > 
Oh  i  bid  the  conflict  cease  1 

I  hear  thy  whisper — and  the  warm  tears  gush 
Into  mine  eyes,  the  quick  pulse  thrills  ray  heart ; 
Thou  bidd'st  the  peace,  the  reverential  hush, 
The  still  submission,  from  my  thoughts  depart : 
Dear  one  I  this  must  not  be. 

The  past  looks  on  me  from  thy  mournful  eye, 
The  beauty  of  our  free  and  vernal  days ; 
Our  communings  with  sea,  and  hill,  and  sky — 
Ob  I  take  that  bright  world  from  my  spirit's  gars) 
Thou  art  all  earth  to  me  I 

Shut  out  the  sunshine  from  my  dying  room, 
The  jasmine's  breath,  the  murmur  of  the  bee  ; 
Let  not  the  joy  of  bird-notes  pierce  the  gloom  t 
They  speak  of  love,  of  summer,  and  of  thee, 

Too  much— and  death  is  beret 

Doth  our  own  spring  make  happy  music  now, 
From  the  old  beech-roots  flashing  into  day  ? 
Are  the  pure  lilies  imaged  in  its  flow  ? 
Alas  I  vain  thoughts  I  that  fondly  thus  can  stray 
From  the  dread  hour  so  near  I 

If  I  could  but  draw  courage  from  the  light 
Of  thy  clear  eye,  that  ever  shone  to  bless  \— 
Not  now  1  'twill  not  be  now  I — my  aching  sight 
Drinks  from  that  fount  a  flood  of  tenderness, 
Bearing  all  strength  away  I 

Leave  me ! — thou  com'st  between  my  heart  and  Heaven ' 
.     I  would  be  still,  in  voiceless  prayer  to  die  I— 

Why  must  our  souls  thus  love,  and  thus  be  riven  ?— 
Return  I  thy  parting  wakes  mine  agony  I— 
Oh,  yet  awhile  delay ! 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


893 


THE  MESSAGE  TO  THE  DEAD.* 


THOU'RT  passing  hence,  my  brother  ! 

Oh  !  my  earliest  friend,  farewell  I 
Thou'rt  leaving  me,  without  thy  voice, 

In  a  lonely  home  to  dwell ; 
And  from  the  hills,  and  from  the  hearth, 

And  from  the  household  tree, 
With  thee  departs  the  lingering  mirth, 

The  brightness  goes  with  thee. 

But  thou,  my  friend,  my  brother  I 

Thou'rt  speeding  to  the  shore 
Where  the  dirgelike  tone  of  parting  words 

Shall  smite  the  soul  no  more  ! 
And  thou  wilt  see  our  holy  dead, 

The  lost  on  earth  and  main  ; 
Into  the  sheaf  of  kindred  hearts, 

Thou  wilt  be  bound  again  1 

Tell,  then,  our  friend  of  boyhood 

That  yet  his  name  is  heard 
On  the  blue  mountains,  whence  his  youth 

Passed  like  a  swift  bright  bird. 
The  light  of  his  exulting  brow, 

The  vision  of  his  glee, 
Are  on  me  still — oh  1  still  I  trust 

That  smile  again  to  see. 


And  tell  our  fair  young  sister, 

The  rose  cut  down  in  spring, 
That  yet  my  gushing  soul  is  filled 

With  lays  she  loved  to  sing. 
Her  soft,  deep  eyes  look  through  my  dreanu 

Tender  and  sadly  swee,t  ;— 
Tell  her  my  heart  withiame  burns 

Once  more  that  gaze  to  meet  t 

And  tell  our  white-haired  father, 

That  in  the  paths  he  trode, 
The  child  he  loved,  the  last  on  earth, 

Yet  walks  and  worships  God. 
Say,  that  his  last  fond  blessing  yet 

Rests  on  my  soul  like  dew, 
And  by  its  hallowing  might  I  trust 

Once  more  his  face  to  view. 

And  tell  our  gentle  mother, 

That  on  her  grave  I  pour 
The  sorrows  of  my  spirit  forth, " 

As  on  her  breast  of  yore. 
Happy  thou  art  that  soon,  how  soon, 

Our  good  and  bright  will  see  I — 
Oh  t  brother,  brother  I  may  I  dwell, 

Ere  long,  with  them  and  thee  I 


THE  SOLDIER'S  DEATHBED. 

t"  Wie  herrllch  die  Sonne  dort  untergeht  I  da  ich  noch  ein  Bube  war— wart  mein  Lieblings^* 
danke,  wie  sie  zu  lebcn,  wie  sle  zu  sterbcn  \"—Die  Rauier.] 

Like  thee  to  die,  thou  sun  I — My  boyhood's  dream 
Was  this  ;  and  now  my  spirit,  with  thy  beam, 
Ebbs  from  a  field  of  victory  I — yet  the  hour 
Bears  back  upon  me,  with  a  torrent's  power, 
Nature's  deep  longings : — Oh,  for  some  kind  ey«i 
Wherein  to  meet  love's  fervent  farewell  gaze  ; 
Some  breast  to  pillow  Life's  last  agony, 
Some  voice,  to  speak  of  hope  and  better  days, 
Beyond  the  pass  of  shadows !— But  I  go, 
I,  that  have  been  so  loved,  go  hence  alone ; 
And  ye,  now  gathering  round  my  cwn  hearth's  glow, 
Sweet  friends  I  it  may  be  that  a  softer  tone, 
Even  in  this  moment,  with  your  laughing  glee, 
Mingles  its  cadence  while  you  speak  of  me  : 
Of  me,  your  soldier,  'midst  the  mountains  lying, 
On  the  red  banner  of  his  battles  dying. 

•  "  Messages  from  the  living  to  the  dead  are  not  uncommon  In 'the  Highlands.  The  Gael 
have  such  a  ceaseless  consciousness  of  immortality,  that  their  departed  friends  are  considered  as 
merely  absent  for  a  time,  and  permitted  to  relieve  the  hours  of  separation  by  occasional  intercourse 
with  the  objects  of  their  earliest  affections."— See  the  tfottt  ta  Mrt.  Brvntott't  Work*.  . 


394  SONOB  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

Far,  far  away  I— and  oh  I  your  parting  prayer- 
Will  not  his  name  be  fondly  murmured  there? 
It  will  I — A  blessing  on  that  holy  hearth  I 
Though  clouds  are  darkening  to  o'ercast  its  mirtn. 
M  other  I  I  may  not  hear  thy  voice  again  ; 
Sisters  I  ye  watch  to  greet  my  step  in  vain ; 
Young  brother,  fare  thee  well  I — on  each  dear  head 
Blessing  and  love  a  thousandfold  be  shed, 
My  soul's  last  earthly  breathings ! — May  your  home 
Smile  for  you  ever ! — May  no  winter  come, 
No  world,  between  your  hearts  I     May  e'en  your  tears, 
For  my  sake,  full  of  long-remembered  years, 
.     Quicken  the  true  affections  that  entwine 

Your  lives  in  one  bright  bond  ! — I  may  not  sleep 

Amidst  our  fathers,  where  those  tears  might  shine 

Over  my  slumbers  ;  yet  your  love  will  keep 

My  memory  living  in  the  ancestral  halls, 

Where  shame  hath  never  trod  ; — tie  dark  njght  falls, 

And  I  depart. — The  brave  are  gone  to  rest, 

The  brothers  of  my  combats,  on  the  breast 

Of  the  red  field  they  reaped  ; — their  work  is  done  — 

Thou,  too,  art  set  I — farewell,  farewell,  thou  sun ! 

The  last  lone  watcher  of  the  bloody  sod 

Offers  a  trusting  spirit  up  to  God. 


THE  IMAGE  IN  THE  HEART, 


"  True.  Indeed,  it  Is, 

That  they  whom  death  has  hidden  from  our  sight. 
Are  worthiest  of  the  mind's  regard  ;  with  them 
The  future  cannot  contradict  the  past— 
Mortality!  last  exercise  and  proof 
Is  undergone."— WORDSWORTH. 

"  The  lovt>  where  death  has  set  his  seal, 
Nor  age  can  chill,  nor  rival  steal, 

Nor  falsehood  disavow."-^ BYRON 

I  CALL  thee  blest  1— though  now  the  voice  be  fled, 
Which,  to  thy  soul,  brought  dayspring  with  its  tone, 
And  o'er  the  gentle  eyes  though  dust  be  spread, 
Eyes  that  ne'er  looked  on  thine  but  light  was  thrown 
Far  through  thy  breast : 

And  though  the  music  of  thy  life  be  broken; 
Or  changed  in  every  chord,  since  he  is  gone, 
Feeling  all  this,  even  yet ,  by  many  a  token, 
O  thou,  the  deeply,  but  the  brightly  lone  I 
I  call  thee  blest. 

For  in  thy  heart  there  is  a  holy  spot, 
As  'mid  the  waste  an  Isle  of  fount  and  palm, 
For  ever  green  1 — the  world's  breath  enters  not, 
rhe  passion-tempests  may  oot  break  its  calm ; 
Tis  thine,  all  thine  I 

Thither,  in  trust  unbaffled,  mayst  thou  turn, 
From  bitter  words,  cold  greetings,  heartless  eyes. 


;    80NQS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS.  39S 

Quenching  thy  soul's  thirst  at  the  hidden  urn, 
That,  filled  with  waters  of  sweet  memory,  lies 
In  its  own  shrine. 

Thou  hast  thy  home  I — there  is  no  power  in  change 
To  reach  that  temple  of  the  past ; — no  sway, 
In  all  time  brings  of  sudden,  dark,  or  strange, 
TO  sweep  the  still  transparent  peace  away 
From  its  hushed  air  I 

And  oh  I  that  glorious  image  of  the  dead  1 
Sole  thing  whereon  a  deathless  love  may  rest, 
And  in  deep  faith  and  dreamy  worship  shed 
Its  high  gifts  fearlessly  1 — I  call  thee  blest, 
If  only  there  I 

Blest,  for  the  beautiful  within  thee  dwelling, 
Never  to  fade  1 — a  refuge  from  distrust, 
A  spring  of  purer  life,  still  freshly  welling, 
To  clothe  the  barrenness  of  earthly  dust 
With  flowers  divine. 

And  thou  bast  been  beloved  1 — it  is  no  dream, 
No  false  mirage  for  thee,  the  fervent  love, 
The  rainbow  still  unreached,  the  ideal  gleam, 
That  ever  seems  before,  beyond,  above, 
Far  off  to  shine. 

But  thou,  from  all  the  daughters  of  the  eartl 
Singled  and  marked,  hast  known,  its  home  and  place  I 
And  the  high  memory  of  its  holy  worth, 
To  this  our  life  a  glory  and  a  grace 

For  thee  hath  given: 

And  art  thou  not  still  fondly,  truly  loved? 
Thou  art  I — the  love  his  spirit  bore  away, 
Was  not  for  death ! — a  treasure  but  removed, 
A  bright  bird  parted  for  a  clearer  day, — 
Thine  still  in  Heaven  1 


THE  LAND  OF  DREAMS. 

"  And  dreams,  in  their  development,  have  treatb, 
And  tears,  and  tortures,  and  the  touch  of  joy ; 
They  leave  a  weight  upon  our  waking  thoughts. 
They  make  us  what  we  were  not — what  they  will, 
And  shake  us  with  the  vision  that's  gone  .by."— BYRON. 

O  SPIRIT-LAND  1  thou  land  of  dreams  t 
A  world  thou  art  of  mysterious  gleams, 
Of  startling  voices,  and  sounds  at  strife,— 
A  world  of  the  dead  in  the  hues  of  life. 

Like  a  wizard's  magic  glass  thou  art, 
When  the  wavy  shadows  float  by,  and  part 
Visions  of  aspects,  now  loved,  now  stiange, 
Glimmering  and  mingling  in  ceaseless  change. 


396  8QNG8  OP  THE  AFFECTIONS 

Thou  art  like  a  city  of  the  past, 
With  its  gorgeous  halls  into  fragments  cast, 
Amidst  whose  ruins  there  glide  and  play 
Familiar  forms  of  the  world's  to-day. 

Thou  art  like  the  depths  where  the  seas  have  birth, 
Rich  with  the  wealth  that  is  lost  from  earth. — 
All  the  sere  flowers  of  our  days  gone  by, 
And  the  buried  gems  in  thy  bosom  lie. 

Yes  !  thou  art  like  those  dim  sea-caves, 

A  realm  of  treasures,  a  realm  of  graves  1 

And  the  shapes  through  thy  mysteries  that  come  and  go. 

Are  of  beauty  and  terror,  of  power  and  woe. 

But  for  me,  O  thou  picture-land  of  sleep  ! 
Thou  art-all  one  world,  of  affections  deep, — 
And  wrung  from  my  heart  is  each  flushing  dyCj 
That  sweeps  o'er  thy  chambers  of  imagery. 

And  thy  bowers  are  fair— even  as  Eden  fair ; 
All  the  beloved  of  my  soul  are  there  I 
The  forms  my  spirit  most  pines  to  see, 
The  eyes,  whose  love  hath  been  life  to  me : 

They  are  there, — and  each  blessed  voice  I  bear, 
Kindly,  and  joyous,  and  silvery  clear ; 
But  under-tones  are  in  each,  that  say, — 
"  It  is  but  a  dream  ;  it  will  melt  away  J" 

I  walk  with  sweet  friends  in  the  sunset's  glow ; 

I  listen  to  music  of  long  ago  ; 

But  one  thought,  like  an  omen,  breathes  faint  through  the  lay,- 

"It  is  but  a  dream  ;  it  will  melt  away  1" 

I  'sit  by  the  hearth  of  my  early  days ; 
All  the  home-faces  are  met  by  the  blaze, — 
And  the  eyes  of  the  mother  shine  soft,  yet  say, 
"  It  is  but  a  dream  ;  it  will  melt  away  1" 

And  away,  like  a  flower's  passing  breath,  'tis  gone. 
And  I  wake  more  sadly,  more  deeply  lone  1 
Oh  1  a  haunted  heart- is  a  weight  to  bear, — 
Bright  faces,  kind  voices  !  where  are  ye,  where  ? 

Shadow  not  forth,  O  thou  land  of  dreams, 

The  past,  as  it  fled  by  my  own  blue  streams ! 

Make  not  my  spirit  within  me  bum 

For  the  scenes  and  the  hours  that  may  ne'er  return  1 

Call  out  from  the/uiure  thy  visions  bright; 
From  the  world  o'er  the  grave,  take  thy  solemn  light. 
And  oh  1  with  the  loved,  whom  no  more  I  see, 
Show  me  my  home,  as  it  yet  may  be  1 

As  it  yet  may  be  fn  some  purer  sphere, 

No  cloud,  no  parting,  no  sleepless  fear ; 

So  my  soul  may  bear  on  through  the  long,  long  day, 

Till  I  go  where  the  beautiful  melts  not  away  I 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS.  897 


THE  TWO  HOMES. 

"  Oh !  if  the  soul  immortal  be, 
Is  not  its  love  immortal  too  ? ' 

SEE'ST  thou  my  home  ? — 'tis  where  yon  woods  are  waving, 
In  their  dark  richness,  to  the  summer  air  ; 
Where  yon  blue  stream,  a  thousand  flower-banks  laving, 
Leads  down  the  hills  a  vein  of  light, — 'tis  there  1 

'Midst  those  green  wilds  how  many  a  fount  lies  gleaming, 
Fringed  'vith  the  violet,  coloured  with  the  skies  ! 
My  boyhood's  haunt,  through  days  of  summer  dreaming, 
Under  young  leaves  that  shook  with  melodies. 

My  home  I  the  spirit  of  its  love  is  breathing 
In  every, wind  that  plays  across  my  track  ; 
From  its  white  walls  the  very  tendrils  wreathing, 
Seem  with  soft  links  to  draw  the  wanderer  back. 

There  am  I  loved — there  prayed  for — there  my  mother 
Sits  by  the  hearth  with  meekly  thoughtful  eye  ; 
There  my  young  sisters  watch  to  greet  their  brother — 
Soon  their  glad  footsteps  down  the  path  will  fly. 

There,  in  gweet  strains  of  kindred  music  blending, 
All  the  home-voices  meet  at  day's  decline  ; 
One  are  those  tones,  as  from  one  heart  ascending,—- 
There  laughs  my  home — sad  stranger  1  where  is  thine? 

Ask'st  thou  of  mine  ? — In  solemn  peace  'tis  lying, 
Far  o'er  the  deserts  and  the  tombs  away  ; 
Tis  where  /,  too,  am  loved  with  love  undying, 
And  fond  hearts  wait  my  step— But  where  are  they? 

Ask  where  the  earth's  departed  have  their  dwelling  ; 
Ask  of  the  clouds,  the  stars,  the  trackless  air  1 
I  know  it  not,  yet  trust  the  whisper,  telling 
My  lonely  heart,  that  love  unchanged  is  there. 

And  what  is  home,  and  where,  but  with  the  loving  ? 
Happy  thoujjl,  that  so  canst  gaze  on  thine  1 
My  spirit.feels  but,  in  its  weary  roving, 
That  with  foe  dead,  where'er  they  be,  is  mine. 
Go  to  tty  home,  rejoicing  son  and  brother  ! 
Bear  in  fresh  gladness  to  the  household  scene  I 
For  me,  too,  watch  the  sister  and  the  mother, 
I  well  believe— but  dark  seas  roll  between. 


WOMAN  ON  THE  FIELD  OF  BATTLE. 

"  Where  hath  not  uociii,  stood, 
Strong  in  affection's  might  ?  a  reed,  upborne 
By  an  o'ermastering  current  1" 


GENTLE  and  lovely  form, 
What  didst  thou  hear, 

When  the  fierce  battle-storm 
Bore  down  the  spear  ? 


Banner  and  shivered  crest, 
Beside  thee  strown, 

Tell,  that  amidst  the  best, 
Thy  work  was  done  1 


398 


BONOS  OF  TEE  AFFECTIONS. 


Yet  strangely,  sadly  fair, 

O'er  the  wild  scene, 
Gleams  through  its  golden  hair, 

That  brow  serene. 

Low  lies  the  stately  head, — 
Earth-bound  the  free ; 

How  gave  those  haughty  dead 
A  place  to  thee  ? 

Slumberer  I  thine  early  bier 
Friends  should  have  crowned, 

Many  a  flower  and  tear 
Shedding  around. 

Soft  voices,  clear  and  young, 

Mingling  their  swell, 
Should  o'er  thy  dust  have  sung 

Earth's  last  farewell. 

Sisters,  above  the  grave 

Of  thy  repose, 
Should  have  bid  violets  wave 

With  the  white  rose. 

Now  must  the  trumpet's  note, 

Savage  and  shrill, 
For  requiem  o'er  thee  float, 

Thou  fair  and  still  t 

And  the  swift  charger  sweep, 
In  full  career, 


Trampling  thy  place  of  steep,— 
Why  earnest  thou  here? 

Why? — ask  the  true  heart  why 

Woman  hath  been 
Ever,  where  brave  men  die, 

Unshrinking  seen  ? 

Unto  this  harvest  ground 
Proud  reapers  came,— 

Some,  for  that  stirring  sound. 
A  warrior's  name ; 

Some,  for  the  stormy  play 

And  joy  of  strife  ; 
And  some,  to  fling  away 

A  weary  life ; — 

But  thou,  pale  sleeper,  thou, 
With  the  slight  frame, 

And  the  rich  locks,  whose  glow 
Death  cannot  tame ; 

Only  one  thought,  one  power,* 

Thee  could  have  led, 
So,  through  the  tempest's  hour, 

To  lift  thy  head  I 

Only  the  true,  the  strong, 
The  love,  whose  trust 

Woman's  deep  soul  too  long 
Pours  on  the  dust  1 


THE  DESERTED  HOUSE. 


GLOOM  is  upon  tuy  lonely  hearth, 

0  silent  house  1  once  filled  with  mirth  ; 
Sorrow  is  in  the  breezy  sound 

Of  thy  tall  poplars  whispering  round. 

The  shadow  of  departed  hours 
Hangs  dim  upon  thine  early  flower* ; 
Even  in  thy  sunshine  seems  to  brood 
Something  more  deep  than  solitude. 

Fair' art  thou,  fair  to  a  stranger's  gaze, 
Mine  own  sweet  home  of  other  days  ! 
My  children's  birth-place  1  yet  for  me, 
It  is  too  much  to  look  on  thee. 

Too  much  !  for  all  about  thee  spread, 

1  feel  the  memory  of  the  dead, 
And  almost  linger  for  the  feet 
That  never  more  my  step  shall  meet. 

The  looks,  the  smiles,  all  vanished  now, 
Follow  me  where  thy  roses  blow  ; 
The  echoes  of  kind  household  words 
Are  with  me  'midst  thy  singing  birds. 


Till  my  heart  dfes,  it  dies  away 
In  yearnings  for  what  might  not  stay ; 
For  love  which  'ne'er  deceived  my  trust, 
For  all  which  went  with  ' '  dust  to  dust  !"• 

What  now  is  left  me,  but  to  raise 
From  thee,  lorn  spot !  my  spirit's  gaze, 
To  lift,  through  tears,  my  straining  eye 
Up  to  my  Father's  house  on  high  ? 

Oh  I  many  are  the  mansions  there, 
But  no>  in  one  hath  grief  a  share  J 
No  haiihting  shade  from  things  gone  by 
May  there  o'ersweep  th'  unchanging  sky. 

And  they  are  there,  whose  long-loved  raieti 
In  earthly  home  no  more  is  seen 
Whose  places,  where  they  smiling  sate, 
Are  left  unto  us  desolate. 

We  miss  them  when  the  board  is  spread  ; 
We  miss  them  when  the  prayer  is  said  ; 
Upon  our  dreams  their  dying  eyes 
In  still  and  mournfjl  fondness  rise. 


SONGS  OF  TEE  AFFECTION'S.. 


399 


But  they  are  where  these  longings  vain 
Trouble  no  more  the  heart  and  brain  > 
The  sadness  of  this  aching  love 
Dims  not  our  Father's  house  above. 

Ye  are  at  rest,  and  I  in  tears,* 
Ye  dwellers  of  immortal  spheres ; 
Under  the  poplar  boughs  I  stand, 
And  mount  the  broken  household  band. 


But,  by  your  life  of  lowly  faith, 
And  by  your  joyful  hope  in  death, 
Guide  me,  till  on  some  brighter  shore 
The  severed  wreath  is  bound  once  more  I 

Holy  ye  were,  and  good,  and  true  I 
No  change  can  cloud  my  thoughts  of  you  ; 
Guide  me,  like  you  to  live  and  die, 
And  reach  my  Father's  house  on  high  I 


THE  STRANGER'S  HEART. 


THE  stranger's  heart  I  Oh  1  wound  it  not  I 
A  yearning  anguish  is  its  lot  ; 
In  the  green  shadow  of  thy  tree, 
The  stranger  finds  no  rest  with  thee. 

Thou  think'st  the  vine's  low  rustling  leaves 
Glad  music  round  thy  household  eaves  : 
To  him  that  sound  hath  sorrow's  tone — 
The  stranger's  heart  is  with  his  own. 

Thou   think'st    thy   children's    laughing 

play 
A  lovely  sight  at  fall  of  day  ;— 


Then  are  the  stranger's  thoughts  oppressed— 
His  mother's  voice  comes  o'er  his  breast. 

Thou  think'st  it  sweet  when  friend  with 

friend 

Beneath  one  roof  in  prayer  may  blend  ; 
Then  doth  the  stranger's  eye  grow  dim — 
Far,  far  are  those  who  prayed  with  him. 

Thy  hearth,  thy  home,  thy  vintage  land— 
The  voices  of  thy  kindred  band — 
Oh  1  "midst  them  all  when  blest  thou  art, 
Deal  gently  with  the  stranger's  heart  I 


COME  HOME  I 


COMB  home  I — there  is  a  sorrowing  breath 

In  music  since  ye  went, 
And  the  early  flower-scents  wander  by, 

With  mournful  memories  blent. 
The  tones  in  every  household  voice 

Are  grown  more  sad  and  deep, 
And  the   sweet  word — brother — wakes  a 
wish 

To  turn  aside  and  weep. 

O  ye  beloved  !  come  home  ! — the  hour 

Of  many  a  greeting  tone, 
The  time  of  hearth-light  and  of  song, 

Returns — and  ye  are  gone  ! 
And  darkly,  heavily  it  falls 

On  the  forsaken  room, 
Burdening  the  heart  with  tenderness, 

That  deepens  'midst  the  gloom. 


Where  finds  \\.you,  ye  wandering  ones? 

With  all  your  boyhood's  glee 
Untamed,  beneath  the  desert's  palm, 

Or  on  the  lone  mid-sea  ? 
By  stormy  hills  of  battles  old  ? 

Or  where  dark  rivers  foam  ?-^ 
Oh  1  life  is  dim  where  ye  are  not — 

Back,  ye  beloved,  come  home  1 

Come  with  the  leaves  and  winds   cJ 
spring, 

And  swift  birds,  o'er  the  main  I 
Our  love  is  grown  too  sorrowful — 

Bring  us  its  youth  again  ! 
Bring  the  glad  tones  to  music  back  t 

Still,  still  your  home  is  fair, 
The  spirit  of  your  sunny  life 

Alone  is  wanting  there  1 


*  Frora  an  ancient  Hebrew  dirge : — 

Moum  for  the  mourner,  and  not  for  the  dead ' 
FOT  be  Is  at  rest,  and  we  in  tears  I 


400 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  OBLIVION. 

" Implora  pace  f  * 


ONE  draught,  kind  Fairy ;  from  that  foun- 
tain deep, 

To  lay  the  phantoms  of  a  haunted  breast, 

And  lone  affections,  which  are  griefs,  to 
steep 

In  the  cool  honey-dews  of  dreamless  rest ; 

And  from  the  soul  the  lightning-marks  to 
lave — 

One  draught  of  that  sweet  wave  I 

Yet,  mortal,  pause  1— within  thy  mind  is 


laid 

Wealth,      gathered 
thoughts  divine 


long    and    slowly  ; 


Heap  that  full  treasure-house ;  and  thou 

hast  made 

The  gems  of  many  a  spirit's  ocean  thine  ; — 
Shall  the  dark  waters  to  oblivion  bear 
A  pyramid  so  fair  ? 

Pour  from  the  fount  I  and  let  the  draught 

efface 

All  the  vain  lore  by  memory's  pride  amassed. 
So  it  but  sweep  along  the  torrent's  trace, 
And  fill  the  hollow  channels  of  the  past ; 
And  from  the  bosom's  inmost  folded  leaf 
Rase  the  one  master-grief  1 

Yet  pause  once  mere  !— all,  all  thy  soul 


hath  known, 


[fade  I 


Loved,  felt,  rejoiced  in,  from  its  grasp  must 

Is  there  no  voice  whose  kind  awakening  tone 

A  sense  of  spring-time  in  thy  heart  hath 

made  ?  [recall  ?>— 

No  eye  whose  glance  thy  day-dreams  would 

Think,  wouldst  thou  part  with  all  ? 


Fill  with  forgetfulness  I— there  are,  there  are. 
Voices  whose  music  I  have  loved  too  well ; 
Eyes  of  deep  gentleness — but  they  are  far  •» 
Never  !  oh — never,  in  my  home  to  dwell  1 
Take  their  soft  looks  f>om  off  my  yearning 
soul — 

Fill  high  th'  oblivious  bowl ! 

Yet  pause  again  1— with  memory  wilt  thou 

cast 

The  undying  hope  away,  of  memory  bom  / 
Hope  of  re-union,  heart  to  heart  at  last, 
No  restless  doubt  between,   no  rankling 

thorn? 

Wouldst  thou  erase  all  records  of  delight 
That  make  such  visions  bright  ? 

Fill  with  forgetfulness,  fill  high! — yet  stay — 
'Tis  from  the  past  we  shadow  forth  the  land 
Where  smiles,  long  lost,  again  shall  light 

our  way, 
And  the  soul's  friends  be  wreathed  in  one 

bright  band : — 
Pour  the  sweet  waters  back  on  their  own 

rill, 

I  must  remember  still. 

For  their  sake,  for  the  dead— whose  image 

nought  i 

May  dim  within  the  temple  of  my  breast— 

For  their  love's  sake,  which  now  no  earthly 

thought 

May  shake  or  trouble  with  its  own  unrest, 
Though  the  past  haunt  me  as  a  spirit, — w* 
I  ask  not  to  forget. 


*  Quoted  from  a  letter  of  Lord  Byron's. 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


UCLA-College  Library 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FA    L  TY 


A     001  164645     2 


